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OUT OF STEP 


\ 


H IRovel 


BY 

MARIA LOUISE 

AUTHOR OF 



^POOL 


“ THE TWO SALOMES” “MRS. KEATS BRADFORD ” 
“ DALLY ” “ ROWENY IN BOSTON ” ETC. 



NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 

1894 




i 


By maria LOUISE POOL. 


DALLY. I MRS. KEATS BRADFORD. 

ROWENY IN BOSTON. I KATHARINE NORTH. 
THE TWO SALOMES. 

Post %vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $12^ each. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

The ahcme works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be 
sent by the publishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United 
States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of price. 


Copyright, 1894, by Harper & Brothers. 


All rights reserved. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. IN MASSACHUSETTS AGAIN 

II. EXPECTING 

III. “WHY DID YOU WAIT?” 

IV. “AS IF SOMETHING WERE GOING TO HAPPEN”. 

V. AT THE SCUDDERS’ 

VI. THE ONE he’s ENGAGED TO 

VII. TWO GIRLS 

VIH. “HE KNEW YOU?” 

IX. THE TIME OF THE CLETHRA 

X. A MARRIAGE 

XI. SOME MONTHS LATER 

XII. “THAT LITTLE RIFT ” 

XHI. WITH MRS. DARRAH 

XIV. PORTRAIT PAINTING 

XV. IN THE STUDIO 

XVI. REFORMATION ? 

XVII. “the END IS vision” 

XVIII. “the end is vision and the end is near” 


PAGE 

I 

22 

39 

57 

74 

91 

109 

125 

142 

159 

176 

191 

207 

222 

239 

256 

273 

288 




t 


OUT OF STEP 


I 

IN MASSACHUSETTS AGAIN 

The girl came in somewhat breathless, but in spite of her 
red face and her flying hair there was an air of importance 
about her. She swung her bag of school-books on to the 
end of the kitchen table with a thump. 

“ I’ll bet a dollar you can’t guess what I know !” she ex- 
claimed. 

Her mother was kneading bread dough at the other end 
of the table. She paused in that operation to look admir- 
ingly at her daughter, who was sixteen and a bright light 
in the high-school in the village, two miles away. This 
daughter was not, however, in spite of her advancement in 
the teens, much burdened with dignity, for she leaned half 
her length on the table that she might reach a dish of dried 
apples which Mrs. Scudder had just been picking over. 
The girl put her white young teeth into a thick piece of the 
fruit ; then she threw the bit across the room into the sink. 

“ I do believe,” she cried, “that dried apple is the chew- 
ingest thing on the face of the earth.” 

“ You needn’t waste them apples, if they be tough,” said 
her mother, with more admiration than reproof in her man- 
ner. 

“Oh, I guess we sha’n’t fail if we do lose a few,” re- 
sponded the girl, sitting down and resting her arms on the 


2 


OUT OF STEP 


table. She glanced towards the dining-room where the 
table was set. “I do hope you’ve got something good 
for supper, and a lot of it. I’m as hungry as a thousand 
bears.” 

“ We’re goin’ to have thickened toast ’n’ rhubarb pie,” 
her mother answered. 

“ Oh, goody ! But I want a boiled egg with my toast. 
I tell you what, mother, a girl can’t go to high - school 
and cram, and then walk two miles home without some- 
thing to build up the tissues. She can’t do it.” 

Cornelia, commonly called “ Nely,” gave her little school- 
girl laugh as she finished this speech. Her mother smiled 
more admiringly than ever. 

“ What be tissues ?” she asked. 

“ Oh, something we have inside of us, and that have to 
be built up all the time,” replied the girl. 

“ Is that so ? We didn’t have no tissues inside of us 
when I went to school,” said Mrs. Scudder. 

“ Of course not. They were not invented then. But, I 
say, mother, you can’t guess what I know,” returning to 
her first remark. 

“You’re gittin’ to know so many things, Nely, that I 
don’t see how I can even give a guess,” said the mother, 
with proud humility. 

“Oh, ’tisn’t anything I learned at school,” disclaimed 
Nely, “but who do you s’pose is going to be our first as- 
sistant ? Miss Riddle’s got to go away. Now, who do you 
think’s going to take her place ?” 

Mrs. Scudder paused in her painstaking working of the 
dough. 

“ Somebody I know ?” she asked. 

She was deeply interested, as she would have been in 
the most trifling thing her daughter could have mentioned, 
and she was grateful for any subject upon which she could 
talk, as are most women who live in the country, where a 
small topic is a godsend. She now wished to handle this 
affair leisurely and extract everything from it. 


IN MASSACHUSETTS AGAIN 


3 


“Yes, indeed,” was the answer. “You know her just 
as well as you know to pray.” 

“ Nely !” exclaimed her mother, reprovingly. 

But Nely had just read in school about how the Sultan 
went to Ispahan, and had been charmed with the verses ; 
she was now charmed to quote them and to shock her moth- 
er at the same time. 

“ I guess it’s Mr. Storer’s daughter,” now said Mrs. 
Scudder. 

“ It isn’t. You’re miles away,” replied Nely, getting up 
and taking a drink from the cocoanut dipper in the water 
pail. 

“ Be you acquainted with the new assistant ?” inquired 
her mother. - 

“ I should say I was. And I’ve always been in love 
with her. But maybe she’s changed.” 

“ Changed ?” 

“ Yes. She’s been away more than a year. There ! 
Now I’ve done it, and you know who it is, and I meant to 
make you guess a long time. I’ve a great mind to eat a 
seed-cake. I’m so hungry.” 

“ I wouldn’t ; you’ll spoil your supper. You don’t mean 
S’lome Gerry ?” hesitatingly. 

“ Yes ; I do.” 

“ Mercy sakes ! But she’s in Floridy.” 

“ She’s got home.” 

“ But she’s consumptive.” 

“You wouldn’t say so if you saw her now. She doesn’t 
look real tough, but she doesn’t look sick.” 

“You don’t mean to say you’ve seen her, Nely.? I de- 
clare I’m jest ’s interested ’s I c’n be. I know they said 
she was gittin’ well down there, but I never thought she’d 
come home alive. I’d no idea she would. She had a 
reg’lar hackin’ cough jest like what Hatty Shields had, ’n’ 
she went in quick consumption. You ’ain’t seen her, have 
you?” 

“Yes, I have. I saw her in the recitation-room right 


4 


OUT OF STEP 


after school. She came with one of the committee, and 
she saw the principal, and she’s coming in next Monday, 
and I’m awfully glad. Mother, I do believe I will eat a 
seed-cake.” 

“ It ’ll spoil your supper, if you do. Supper ’ll be ready 
in half an hour. I wish you’d git the bakin’ pans ’n’ grease 
’urn for this bread. I forgot it ’fore I got my hands in the 
dough.” 

Cornelia returned from the buttery with the long, shallow 
pans and the bowl of fat. She proceeded with great de- 
liberation to apply this fat to the pans. Her mother pres- 
ently took out handfuls of dough and pressed them into 
the baking dishes. 

“ Then you seen S’lome ?” she repeated. 

“Yes,” said Nely, “and I like the looks of her better 
than I ever did. She has more in her face, somehow,” 
said this wise person of sixteen. 

“ Did she speak to you ?” ^ 

“ Yes, she did. I kind of hung round, you know. Almost 
all the girls had gone, but when I saw her with Mr. East 
I thought I wouldn’t hurry. So I was accidentally on the 
steps when she came out of the door. We looked at each 
other. I declare, mother, I do hke her face. She was 
going right along, then she hesitated, and then she put out 
her hand. 

“‘Why, it’s Nely Scudder,’ she said. Then she kissed 
me, and I wanted to hug her, but I didn’t ; I just stood 
there, and finally I had wit enough to tell her I was glad 
she had come home ; and was she better ? She told 
me she was well now, and was going to be first assistant 
in place of Miss Riddle. When she said that I wanted to 
hug her again, for Miss Riddle is a stiff old thing, you 
know — ” 

“ Nely !” 

“ I don’t care ; she is a stiff old thing ; she must be thirty 
if she’s a day, and I’m so tired of having her look at me 
and say, ‘Miss Scudder, less frivolity, if you please.’ I 


IN MASSACHUSETTS AGAIN 


5 


don’t really believe it would spoil my supper if I ate a 
seed-cake, mother. I’m absolutely starving.” 

“Eat one then. We’ll set right down to the table in a 
few minutes. Ring the bell for your father to come in. 
Did S’lome say anything about her mother 

“ No.” 

“ When’d they git home ?” 

“ Day before yesterday. She said it was by good luck 
that she heard Miss Riddle was going, and as she must go 
to earning money right away, she thought she would apply 
for the position.” 

“ Where be they goin’ to live The old Gerry place was 
sold to pay Lyman Gerry’s debts after he died.” 

“ I don’t know where they are going to live. Of course, 
I didn’t ask questions.” 

“ Of course not. There's your father. You see to boil- 
ing your egg, ’n’ I’ll thicken the gravy for the toast. We’ll 
set down in a minute.” 

While the family were at the supper table and Nely was 
actively engaged in supplying material for the purpose of 
building up her tissues, the talk was exclusively of the Ger- 
ry family — of the father who was dead, and the mother and 
daughter who were left. In the midst of this talk there 
was a knock at the back door. 

Nely answered the summons and ushered in a slim, erect 
woman, dressed in the plainest black. She was a woman 
beyond middle age, with eyes somewhat sunken, but having 
a glance direct and strong and true. Her face was swar- 
thy as if it had been tanned by being exposed to wind and 
sun. And it was a much-worn face also. 

Mrs. Scudder rose from the table hurriedly, making a 
clatter of dishes as she did so. She went towards her vis- 
itor with both hands extended. 

“ I’m jes’ ’s glad to see you ’s I can be !” she exclaimed. 
“Why, Mrs. Gerry, I sh’d think you’d ben gone ten years ! 
How be ye now you have got back ? Do set down. Nely’s 
jest ben tellin’ of seein’ S’lome. How is S’lome 


6 


OUT OF STEP 


Mr. Scudder had risen also and now shook hands with 
extreme cordiality, and with a rotary motion that was some- 
what hard on the joints of the receiver of his greeting. But 
Mrs. Gerry, who was deeply glad to see her old neighbors, 
bore this motion bravely. Her face lighted. Though her 
voice was steady as she replied, no one could have doubted 
her joy. 

“ Ain’t you awful glad to git back ?” asked Mrs. Scudder. 
“ It always seemed to me as if Floridy was a dretful out- 
landish, shif’less kind of a place ; ain’t it ?” 

“ ’Tisn’t much like New England, that’s a fact,” said Mrs. 
Gerry with emphasis. 

“ Set up ’n’ have a cup of tea,” urged Mr. Scudder, “ and 
mar makes mighty good thickened toast,” with a grin in the 
direction of his wife. 

“ Thank you, I had my supper at half-past five.” 

“ Where be you stayin’ ?” 

“At my brother’s.” 

“ Of course. I knew your home was all broke up,” sym- 
pathetically. “ Is S’lome really better ?” 

“ I think she’s well,” was the reply. 

“ And it cured her jest stayin’ there in Floridy ?” 

“Yes. You know the climate is very different.” 

“ I s’pose so. But I don’t see how jest climate c’n do so 
much. It don’t seem ’s if it could.” 

“ Why, mother !” exclaimed the high-school girl, shocked 
at her parent’s ignorance, “ don’t you know that climate is 
one of the most powerful influences for good or evil on the 
human being ?” 

Mrs. Scudder laughed and said, “ Oh, sho, now, Nely !” 
but she glanced proudly at her guest, who was looking smil- 
ingly at the girl. 

“Salome was just telling me, Nely,” said Mrs. Gerry, 
“ that she was glad you were to be one of the pupils at the 
high-school.” 

“ Oh, did she say that ?” Nely’s face flushed with de- 
light. 


IN MASSACHUSETTS AGAIN 


7 


“Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Gerry turned to Nely’s father. 
She told him she had called now to ask about that little 
house he owned at the Ledge. She had heard it was va- 
cant. It was only half a mile from the school where Salome 
would teach. She must hire a place to live in, and she 
thought that would be low-priced. 

“ It’s dretful out of the way. Mis’ Gerry,” Mrs. Scudder 
hastened to state; “I’m afraid you’ll be awful lonesome 
there.” 

“ I’m used to being out of the way,” replied Mrs. Gerry, 
“ since I’ve been in Florida. I sha’n’t mind that. Besides, 
a place in the village would cost too much.” 

“ Do you really mean that you want to hire that Ledge 
house ?” 

It was Mr. Scudder who put this question. 

Mrs. Gerry repeated her request for it. In a few mo- 
ments more she had engaged it. She rose to go. When 
urged to stay longer she explained that Salome had said 
that she should start out to meet her, and she did not want 
the child, who had had rather a tiresome day, to come 
too far. 

“ You still have to be ca’ful of her then ?” inquired Mrs. 
Scudder. 

“ I’ve fallen into that habit,” was the answer, “ but really, 
Salome is well. Do come and see us when we get settled, 
all of you.” 

There was a little more talk, and then Mrs. Gerry was 
walking down the road, and all of the Scudders were look- 
ing at her as she went. 

“ She looks ten years older,” exclaimed Mrs. Scudder. 
“ I declare I never seen nothin’ beat it. That must be a 
terrible climate in Floridy. I wonder how Salome looks. 
I s’pose her mother would have stayed there if it killed her 
if she thought ’twas good for the girl.” 

“ Salome looks changed,” said Nely, returning to the 
table for one more seed-cake. “ But she’s more interesting 
than ever. I just wish I could go to Florida !” 


8 


OUT OF STEP 


“ ’Tain’t likely you ever will,” remarked her mother, com- 
fortably. “ Mebby ’tain’t all climate that’s changed S’lome. 
Mebby she’s ben disappointed down there.” 

“ Disappointed ?” repeated Nely, questioningly. She had 
not yet learned that this word when applied to a girl refers 
solely to the question of love for a man. To say that such 
a woman must have been disappointed means that a lover 
must have proved false to her. 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Scudder. “ P’rhaps she had a beau 
down there, ’n’ he got sick of her. I d’ know’s you c’n tell 
much by them Southern men.” 

“ Pooh !” cried Nely, scornfully. “ It must be a mighty 
poor kind of a beau that would get sick of Salome Gerry. 
I don’t believe any such thing.” 

“ But you don’t know ’bout them Southern men,” went 
on Mrs. Scudder, somewhat reflectively. Then she looked 
up suddenly. “Walter Redd went down there. Did he 
say nothing ’bout any beau of S’lome’s ?” 

“ I guess not. You wouldn’t catch Walter Redd saying 
much any way. He’s awful gone on her himself.” 

With this classic remark Nely began to put on an all- 
enveloping ’tire preparatory to washing the supper dishes. 

During the process of clearing up after the evening meal 
the two women kept up a desultory talk concerning the 
Gerrys ; and even after the two were sitting by the lamp, 
the elder knitting and the younger with her school-books, 
the subject had not lost its interest. Mrs. Scudder clung 
to the idea of Salome’s disappointment, and Nely persisted 
in scouting that idea. 

Long before the lingering twilight had given place to even- 
ing Mrs. Gerry was again at her brother’s. When she had 
left Mr. Scudder’s she had walked quickly down the road, 
hardly glancing to the right or left, but feeling to the bottom 
of her heart the beauty of the hills and dales that rose and 
fell about her, all green with the lovely green of the new 
summer time, all so different, so utterly different from that 
level stretch of Florida land which she had hated. Yes, 


IN MASSACHUSETTS AGAIN 


9 


now that she was away from it, Mrs. Gerry dared to ac- 
knowledge to herself that she hated Florida. She wished 
to forget the hot days of that summer ; the long hours of 
unblinking sunshine ; the white, scorching sand ; the trees 
with thick, glossy leaves ; the gloomy gray moss swinging 
forever from the live-oaks. The ocean was ^11 that had been 
endurable ; she had borne that by thinking that it was the 
same ocean which washed against the New England coast. 

The woman paused in her quick walk when she had 
reached the top of a long hill. From this hill she saw the 
roof and the chimneys of the old Gerry place, where her 
husband had died more than a year ago. The place was 
sold now. Lyman Gerry had been in debt. Well, the 
debts were paid, and the sweet- natured, improvident man 
had paid the last great debt. His widow stood motionless, 
looking at the house which had been her home for so many 
years. She was a woman whose soul revolted against 
change, who longed for the things which had once been 
hers, just because they had been hers. She struck deep 
roots down into her native soil. But those roots had been 
ruthlessly pulled up, or rather, she herself had pulled them 
up, because she thought she ought. She believed that a 
person could do whatever was right. That is, for herself 
she believed it. For Salome — Mrs. Gerry’s whole figure 
underwent some subtle change at the thought of her 
daughter. Not that she made any movement. She was 
thinking that she might have been intolerant if Salome 
had been like the Wares, for instance. The Wares were 
always “ right there you knew where to find them ; their 
position was as well defined as the edges of a block of 
granite. But Salome — 

An ineffable tenderness came into the sunken eyes : still 
the features of the face did not relax or change in any oth- 
er way. 

Mrs. Gerry turned and looked across a pasture that lay 
between her and her brother’s house. At the far side of it, 
in the open space where the young oaks did not grow, was 


10 


OUT OF STEP 


a girl walking slowly. The woman could just see that this 
girl was swinging her hat in her hand. The glow from the 
red west was on that open space of pasture and on the 
slender figure. The birds were flying this way and that over 
the girl, giving out their blithe twilight songs. Somewhere 
far at the rights a whippoorwill had begun to sing, melan- 
choly and listant. 

Until now Mrs. Gerry had thought she liked a whippoor- 
wilPs cry. Now she heard it with Salome’s ears, and won- 
dered if the sound would depress her daughter. Salome 
took such notice of everything, and she was so queer about 
some things. But then she was well, perfectly well. Her 
mother could not be too grateful for that. 

So intently did she watch that form that she did not see 
another figure coming up the hill towards her by the road. 
Just as Salome waved her hat to her mother, a young man 
joined Mrs. Gerry. 

“ I’m real glad to see you,” he said. “ I only just heard 
you had come. I was going to get round and call this even- 
ing.” 

While he was speaking Walter Redd was holding Mrs. 
Gerry’s hand. In a moment she put her other hand over 
the large, brown, well-shaped fingers. The gesture meant 
much with the undemonstrative woman. 

“ I hope you will come,” she answered. 

She paused before she spoke again. The sight of Redd’s 
dark, controlled face affected her strangely. He seemed 
so large and strong that all at once she felt weak and un- 
nerved. But she did not look unnerved. One might al- 
most have said that she was cold. A strenuous effort tow- 
ards composure so often gives a cold aspect. 

“ Florida doesn’t agree with you, Mrs. Gerry,” said Redd. 
“ I didn’t like it myself very well when I was there. But 
there are plenty who do like it. Let’s see, you’ve been there 
more than a year, haven’t you ?” 

“ Yes ; we went the fall before last, you know. We stayed 
all that year, and so much into this.” 


IN MASSACHUSETTS AGAIN 


II 


“ I should think the summer must be dreadful there,” re- 
marked Redd. 

Though he looked so calm, the young man hardly knew 
what he was saying. His eyes, roving about, had now seen 
that approaching figure in the pasture. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Gerry, “the summer was dreadful. 
Day after day it was like being in an oven. The sun was 
like—” 

Here she paused as if under the influence of something 
she could not resist. 

“ Walter,” she said in a whisper, as though some one 
might overhear her, “ haven’t you got over it any .? I hoped 
you would get over it long before this. Men are so differ- 
ent from women about such things.” 

“ Got over it !” repeated the man. “ I don’t know how 
different men are, I’m sure. But I never shall get over it. 
There she is coming now.” 

Redd’s features set themselves hardly. Still looking at 
the distant Salome, he asked : 

“ Where is Moore 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ What ? Don’t you know anything about him ?” 

“No.” 

“ I didn’t think he was like that,” said Redd, with an ac- 
cent of savageness. “ I liked him. I couldn’t help liking 
him.” 

“ You needn’t blame Mr. Moore,” quickly replied Mrs. 
Gerry. “He did all he could. He was broken-hearted. 
But Salome held out. She said she thought it was for his 
good that she shouldn’t be his wife. She said she hoped 
she could do anything for his good ; but that she didn’t 
care what became of her. Well,” again came that pause in 
Mrs. Gerry’s speech, “she held out then. Sometimes I don’t 
know what she would do now. We don’t talk of that time.” 

“ It must have been something of great weight. I am not 
asking what it was, Mrs. Gerry, that could make Salome take 
such a stand.” 


12 


OUT OF STEP 


Redd still watched the girl. 

“ Yes, it was of great weight,” was the answer. 

“ Perhaps in time the obstacles will be removed.” 

“ No,” replied the woman. Then somewhat hurriedly : 
“ Walter, I know what you are thinking. But don’t fix your 
mind upon any such thing.” 

Redd did not reply. He was now perfectly calm in ap^ 
pearance. He left Mrs. Gerry and walked with his delib' 
erate, masterful kind of movement towards the road-side 
fence. 

Salome had nearly reached the fence. Her thin, sensi- 
tive face lighted with pleasure. She hastened. She took 
Redd’s offered hand, and he almost lifted her over into the 
highway. 

“ How good it is to see you, Walter !” she exclaimed. 

Her voice rang clear and steady ; her eyes shone. The 
delicate pallor of her face had been browned over by the 
Florida sun and wind ; but no flush rose beneath the tan. 
She did not color now any more than when Miss Nunally 
had asked her why she never blushed. 

“ I hope you’re glad to get home, Salome,” said Redd. 

She smiled. 

“ It was time for me to come home,” she answered, “ and 
I am glad, any way,” correcting herself, “ I’m glad on moth- 
er’s account. Poor mother !” putting her hand through Mrs. 
Gerry’s arm, “ she doesn’t love the South. She’s a Yankee : 
aren’t you, mother ? A Yankee of the Yankees.” 

“And pray what are you, Salome ?” asked Redd. 

“ I ?” laughing. “ I’m one of those lizards that come out 
and bask in the sun. You mustn’t tell me that lizards don’t 
have their uses, Walter.” 

But Redd had no sympathy with this kind of talk. He 
hardly knew what it meant. He thought Salome seemed 
older. She ought not to seem older in less than two 
years. He must acknowledge that she looked in good 
health ; not red, aggressive health, of course. He glanced 
away from her over the fields. Her face was just as sen- 


IN MASSACHUSETTS AGAIN 


13 


sitive, only the lines were strengthened somehow by firmer 
health. 

Redd felt that she was far away from him. But how 
friendly she was ! How many times he had asked himself if 
he should ever see her again. He had given up thinking he 
should ever see her, and here she was standing beside him 
talking to him in the voice he remembered. He wondered 
why, now that he was with her once more, the time since he 
had met her should seem even longer than it had done. 

“ I’m going to settle down and be of some use in the 
world,” said Salome. “ I’m going to take care of my moth- 
er now,” glancing as she spoke at her mother. “ She has 
always had lurking fears that I was not practical. I’m going 
to prove to her that she has been wrong.” 

Redd’s eyes were on the elder woman as he asked ; 

“ What is she going to do But it was the girl who an- 
swered : 

“ I’m first assistant at the high-school. I take Miss Rid- 
dle’s place. I’m useful. I support my mother. I hold my 
head up in the world.” 

“ I never noticed as you held your head down,” respond- 
ed Redd. He tried to say something about how rejoiced he 
was that she had regained her health. He thought he said 
it very awkwardly. When he had finished speaking the 
two women moved forward, wishing him good-night with 
hearty cordiality. 

The young man kept along the upper road, his hands 
deep in his pockets, his head bent. At a curve he paused 
and looked back. As he gazed his face hardened more and 
more. If he had been a man who ever talked to himself, he 
would now have said aloud : 

“ Walter Redd, I didn’t know you were such a fool.” 

But he did not speak. Presently he was round the cor- 
ner and could not see the two women any more. Presently, 
also, the red faded from the sky, and a mist rose from all the 
low places where the frogs were peeping. 

“ It is like the frogs in the moat at Augustine,” said Sa- 


14 


OUT OF STEP 


lome. “ How warm it must be down there now ! And do 
you suppose it is Mrs. Job Maine’s day for ‘ thur shakes ’ ?” 

The girl laughed, and her mother laughed in response. 
They were very cheerful. And they soon fell to talking 
about the high-school, and Salome said she must furbish 
up her mathematics ; she was never strong in mathematics. 

“ I hope you won’t get too tired,” said Mrs. Gerry. “You 
are not used to being shut up in a room all day.” 

“Oh, I sha’n’t get too tired,” was the reply. “There’s 
lots of work in me. It’s time I was beginning it ; don’t you 
think so, mother ?” — catching her mother’s glance — “ you 
needn’t worry one bit about me. I long to work j and I’m 
tough,” laughing again ; “ I’m what they call ‘ tough as a 
knot.’ It’s going to be your turn to take things easy now. 
I shall bring my wages to you, and you will save them. I 
shall have fifty dollars a month, you know. How much do 
you think it will cost us to live — to be fairly comfortable ? 
I needn’t have beefsteak very often in these days. I’m 
well.” 

The girl straightened her slender figure. “What’s good 
enough for you is good enough for me.” 

She turned towards her mother, and suddenly drew her 
mother’s hand through her arm. Mrs. Gerry could not help 
smiling at the thrifty calculation as to ways and means. 

“ How much do you think it will cost us to live ?” repeat- 
ed the girl. 

“ The rent will be four dollars a month,” was the reply. 
“ Twenty-five dollars ought to cover everything. But your 
clothes — ” 

“ I don’t mean they shall be anything at present. Be 
thankful I am not vain, mother. Then we can save the 
rest of my salary towards what I owe Mrs. Darrah.” 

“Yes, that is what I was thinking. In two years, if we 
are well, with what I can help, she will be paid.” 

Mrs. Gerry spoke with a kind of unconscious solemnity. 
The two women walked on in silence for a few moments. 
The farm-house to which they were going now stood before 


IN MASSACHUSETTS AGAIN 


15 


them, looking black against the pale light of the west. 
There had come a chill in the air, though the day had been 
warm. 

“ I wish you had worn your shawl,” said Mrs. Gerry, 
anxiously. “ Let us hurry.” 

“ I am not cold ; and I don’t want to hurry,” responded 
the girl. She held her mother back a little, hesitating be- 
fore she said, “ I suppose you are very anxious about that 
debt, aren’t you ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Oh, I knew that very well.” Then Salome continued, 
in a light tone, “but we needn’t worry in the least. Mrs. 
Darrah has so much money that even Portia Nunally could 
not spend it nearly all. There’ll be no harm done if I never 
pay it.” 

“ Salome !” 

“No,” repeated the younger woman, with a persistent 
disregard, “ not the least harm. I’m not going to lie awake 
o’ nights thinking of that.” 

“ Certainly you need not lie awake nights,” said Mrs. 
Gerry, patiently, “but we’ll save all we can. It is a just 
debt. And Mrs. Darrah has been kind. It is a just debt.” 
A trifle of hardness came into the speaker’s voice as she 
spoke those words a second time. 

Salome gazed at her companion through the gathering 
dusk. Then she said, still lightly : 

“ Oh yes, I know it is just. But how unlovely justice is ! 
Mother, I hate justice !” 

Mrs. Gerry made no answer. The two walked quickly 
up the path towards the door of the house. 

The next moment Salome was seized upon by the three- 
year-old son of the family, who had been allowed to sit up 
for her return. The two were instantly in the gayest of 
frolics. Salome’s laughter and song sounded through the 
rooms. 

Mrs. Gerry and her sister-in-law sat talking in a desultory 
fashion about what should be put into the house at the Ledge. 


i6 


OUT OF STEP 


The brother’s wife was going to lend some old furniture 
which had been her father’s, and which was now in the attic. 

“ What good company S’lome is !” exclaimed the hostess. 
“ I do b’lieve my childrun ’d soon love her’s well’s they do 
me. She’s real well now, ain’t she 

“Yes.” 

“ I’m awful glad. But somehow I sh’d be kinder ’fraid 
if she was mine to have her in such good spirits. Jest hear 
her !” as the child’s laugh and the girl’s laugh rang out from 
the bedroom where it was, supposed that the boy was being 
put to bed. 

“ I’m sure I don’t mean to worry because Salome is in 
good spirits,” answered Mrs. Gerry. “ There’s worry enough 
in the world without going to meet it in that way.” 

“ Mebby there is,” with a shake of the head ; “ but I’m 
always anxious when folks seem too happy.” 

The speaker paused with the air of having something 
more to say. “ I have heard,” she went on, “ that S’lome’s 
ben disappointed sence she went South. Would you jest 
as lieves tell me if there was any young man payin’ atten- 
tion to her down there?” 

Mrs. Gerry could not help hesitating an instant. She 
resented the question ; but she must meet it in some way. 

“ It wasn’t a place,” she said, finally, “ where we should 
be likely to meet young men. Why, it was the lonesomest, 
most God-forsaken spot you can imagine.” 

“ Odd S’lome liked it, wasn’t it ?” 

“She was getting well all the time, you know,” was the 
answer. 

“ That does make a difference. I remember when Rob- 
ert was gittin’ up from that fever — ” 

And now the woman was well started on a long retro- 
spect; Mrs. Gerry yielded to a sense of relief. But she 
could not forget that remark about her daughter’s having 
been “disappointed” in Florida. Who could have said 
such a thing as that ? Who could possibly know anything of 
what had happened there ? Although Mrs. Gerry was not a 


IN MASSACHUSETTS AGAIN 


17 


woman of impulse, yet she was conscious now of an impulse 
to go away to some place where she and her daughter were 
not known. But all through those long, those interminable 
months in the South, she had hoped and waited for the time 
to come when she could return to her native town. She 
desired with intensity that she might dwell among those 
rocky pastures, under that sky. There had hardly been an 
hour when she had not fought against homesickness. The 
very balm of the air “ went against her,” as she would have 
said. She wished for that east wind which sweeps savagely 
in from the coast. 

Still Mrs. Gerry would not have acknowledged that she 
felt such a longing. She considered it a weakness which 
she must fight down. 

Salome often said that her mother’s idea of being good 
was to fight some tendency all the time. If she did not 
readily find a tendency, a little self-analysis would be sure to 
reveal one. But she said this smilingly, and hanging ten- 
derly about her mother. 

Now as Mrs. Gerry thought of what her sister-in-law had 
said, and heard Salome’s gay voice, she wanted to put her 
hand to her head as if such a gesture would help her to 
think clearly. 

It certainly was very confusing to live with Salome. It 
certainly tended to upset many of the elder woman’s life- 
long theories. Mrs. Gerry knew that her theories must be 
right. They were right. They admitted of no different in- 
terpretation from what she had always given them. Truth 
and self-denial. To tell and live the truth ; and to sacrifice 
one’s self. 

A sudden quiet had come upon the occupants of the ad- 
joining bedroom. The only sound now heard was the dron- 
ing sound of the voice of the woman w’ho was telling how 
Robert was when getting up from his fever. 

Mrs. Gerry saw her daughter’s figure appear noiselessly 
in the doorway. The girl held up her finger and glanced 
back, smiling. 


i8 


OUT OF STEP 


The story of how Robert got up from his fever suddenly 
ceased. 

“Is Benny asleep?” asked Benny’s mother. 

Salome nodded. 

“Well,” said Benny’s mother, “ mebby he’ll let yoil play 
with him again to-morrow.” 

Salome said in that case she would try to wait until to- 
morrow. She came forward and sat down in a large chair, 
leaning back in it and stretching out her feet in a way that 
her hostess believed to be graceful, but also dimly felt to be 
in some manner not exactly the position for a girl to take. 
She thought vaguely that “ mebby it was unlady-like.” She 
told herself that she had “ kinder forgotten that S’lome Ger- 
ry was jes’ ’s she was. She was a real nice girl, ’n’ you was 
drawed to her some way. There was Benny now ” — remem- 
bering how Benny had screamed a few hours before because 
Salome had not come as soon as he had expected her. 
And when the mother thought of Benny’s devotion, she for- 
gave Salome for not sitting upright in a chair as the femi- 
nine human being ought. 

The woman looked narrowly at the girl that she might 
decide if she saw signs of her guest having been “disap- 
pointed.” It seemed to her that if a girl were disappointed 
she must bear a distinct and unmistakable sign of it some- 
where upon her. She did not know precisely what this sign 
was, still she thought she should know it if she saw it. 

Salome’s face and head were well defined against the 
shabby dark covering of the chair ; and the kerosene lamp 
stood on the table at the other side of her. 

As a girl who had been to Florida for her health and had 
come back cured she would be interesting, though it was 
very difficult for one to believe that 'merely staying in Flor- 
ida would cure anybody “ without medicine nor nothing.” 
If it had been bitters now — but Salome must be odd in- 
deed to be cured “jest by climate.” 

“ Be you asleep, S’lome ?” asked the woman. 

“ No,” said Salome, without opening her eyes. 


IN MASSACHUSETTS AGAIN 


9 


“ I was goin’ to tell you that my husband heard, when he 
went to mill this mornin’, that Walter Redd was shinin’ up 
to Mr. Leech’s second daughter. Walter used to be one 
of your beaus, didn’t he, S’lome ?” 

“ I could almost say that he used to be my only beau,” 
Salome replied, still without changing her position or open- 
ing her eyes. 

The woman laughed a little. She kept a close watch on 
the girl. 

“ I hope you ain’t goin’ to feel bad if he should marry 
Sarah Leech,” she remarked. “ Sarah ’ll have as much as 
two thousand dollars if she outlives her aunt Sarah, I ex- 
pect. I guess Walter wouldn’t be sorry if his wife had some 
money.” 

“ He ought to be glad,” responded Salome. 

In the pause that followed these words, Mrs. Gerry felt 
again the stirring of that wish that she and her daughter 
had not come back to a place where they were known. She 
wondered how Salome was feeling about this questioning, 
which was presently resumed. 

“ I s’pose you knew lots of fellers when you was in Flor- 
idy, didn’t you ?” was the next inquiry. 

Mrs. Gerry turned her face away that she might not ap- 
pear to be listening. She knew that their hostess was now 
in pursuit of some clew to the “ disappointment.” 

In these days the mother did not quite know what to 
expect of her daughter. There were times when the two 
almost seemed strangers to each other, so alien were their 
moods. 

Salome now opened her eyes and turned them towards 
her interlocutor. 

“ It was a very lonesome place,” she said. “We really 
knew only two men while we were there. What is it that 
you want to know ? If you will only ask me point-blank, 
— perhaps I’ll answer you,” with a laugh. 

Benny’s mother drew herself up somewhat at this. She 
said she didn’t know as she was one that ever wanted to 


20 


OUT OF STEP 


pry into other folks’s business ; but bein’ connected with 
the Gerrys so, she had been arst things that, if she knew, 
mebby she could stop folks’s mouths. 

“ There isn’t the least necessity for stopping folks’s 
mouths,” said Salome ; “ let them remain gaping and un- 
filled.” 

The woman stared for a moment in angry perplexity. It 
was a fresh grievance that Salome should answer in that 
way, and dimly she was aware of a sense of thunder. Sa- 
lome rose slowly. She stretched her arms above her head. 
She had always, but now more than ever, a kind of freedom 
and spontaneity of bodily movement that resembled the 
movement of a graceful animal. 

“ Mother, I am so sleepy,” she said. 

The two went up-stairs to the room they occupied to- 
gether. When the door had closed upon them the girl 
turned and grasped her companion’s arm. Her eyes shone, 
but her voice did not accord with her glance as she asked : 

“ What was she talking about 

“ I don’t know. She was inquisitive. You know how 
they are here,” answered Mrs. Gerry. 

“ Yes, oh yes, I know. And you like to be among such 
people, mother. They are your kind, in a way ; but as for 
me the girl put the palms of her hands together with a 
suggestion of violence — “ I hate them.” 

When she had spoken thus, Salome evidently tried to 
control herself. 

“ Does Job Maine suit you better?” inquired Mrs. Gerry. 

But Salome did not answer. She had gone to the win- 
dow and had thrown up the sash. She leaned out, inhaling 
the cool, damp air of the night. There was a heavy scent 
of rank green leaves in the air, and the same whippoorwill, 
the girl thought, that had sung when she was a child, was 
again singing in the bushes across the road. 

“ Mother,” said Salome, after a while, “ something hap- 
pened to me to-day.” 

As she spoke with her head out of the window Mrs. 


IN MASSACHUSETTS AGAIN 


21 


Gerry did not hear distinctly at first, and the words had 
to be repeated. But Salome still leaned there in the same 
position. Her mother sat down quickly. She wished that 
she could cease being so much on the alert all the time. 

“ Nothing unpleasant, I hope,” she said, calmly. 

“ That’s just as you take it,” replied Salome. She came 
back into the room and closed the window. She put her 
cold hands on her mother’s arm. 

“ It happened to me that I wrote a letter to — are you 
listening, mother ? — to Mr. Moore.” 


II 


EXPECTING 

Mrs. Gerry’s instant and involuntary effort towards 
self-restraint was so far successful that she was able to say 
“Indeed!” in her usual tone, and as if Salome’s writing 
to Mr. Moore were much the same as her writing to an or- 
dinary acquaintance. 

In the silence that followed the whippoorwill’s note 
sounded stridently melancholy. 

Salome clasped her hands over her head and walked 
about the room. 

“ Do you think I was wrong ?” she asked, at last. 

“ It is a year since you have heard from him ?” was the 
counter question. 

“ A year and two days.” 

“A man’s heart may change so in a year,” said Mrs. 
Gerry. 

“ I thought of that — I thought of that !” exclaimed Sa- 
lome, her voice suddenly thrilling on the words, “but he 
said he should not change. He said — oh, mother ! I can- 
not tell you what he said that last time when he came to 
Augustine. You have been thinking I had forgotten ; that 
I was adjusting myself to circumstances. Haven’t you 
been thinking that, mother ?” 

“ Sometimes. I am sure I have been hoping that you 
had adjusted yourself to circumstances,” was the earnest 
reply. 

“According to you,” exclaimed Salome, “that is all that 
life is ; that horrible adjustment. Now I — I — ” She started 
again to walk across the room. Her face was so pale that 


EXPECTING 


23 


the glow upon it had a spiritual aspect. “ I am not going 
to adjust myself. I am going to live. I’ve been trying 
your way all these months. Haven’t I been good ? To 
be good, you know, mother, is to be ice, stone, iron — all 
those things from which a heart of flesh revolts. To-day 
something snapped. I was glad. I was sitting at that 
desk in the school-house where I am to work. There were 
ink and paper there. I wrote a line to Mr. Moore. I ad- 
dressed it to the firm. He said he could always hear, 
wherever he was, in that way. When I left the place I 
mailed the letter. It has gone by this time. It may be 
in his hands by to-morrow morning, or he may be trav- 
elling.” 

Salome’s words came so fast that she appeared breath- 
less when she had finished speaking. 

She seemed to radiate hope and eager life. 

Mrs. Gerry sat in entire contrast to her daughter. Her 
motionless position was in itself something like a reproof. 

“ What did you write ?” she asked. 

“ Oh, I did not need to write much. I simply said that 
I had changed my mind. That was all.” 

“ But why have you changed your mind ?” was the in- 
exorable question. 

“ Why ? Good heavens ! Mother, why do we choose 
happiness rather than misery ?” 

The girl stood gazing at the figure sitting in the chair. 
“ As for me,” she went on, quickly, “ I think I have borne 
it a good while ; don’t you think so, mother ?” 

Mrs. Gerry leaned forward and took her daughter’s hand, 
attempting to draw the girl down into her arms. But Sa- 
lome resisted, explaining that she must move, must walk, 
that she could not keep still. 

Mrs. Gerry did not lose sight of the main point. 

“ But nothing is altered since you would not listen to 
him,” she said; “all is just as it was. You are the same 
girl. Nothing can be altered, from the very nature of things. 
Why did you go through this year of suffering ? Why did 


24 


OUT OF STEP 


you make Mr. Moore suffer, since now you change your 
mind ?” 

“ Oh, how reasonable you are, mother cried Salome, 
“ and what a thing it is to be reasonable ! But I have had 
enough of it. I have had more than twelve months stuffed 
full of pure reasonableness. I have lain down and risen up 
in reason, and supped and drank reason. Mother, I let 
myself be alive again. And to be alive is to love Randolph 
Moore so much that, like you, I regret my year of being 
conscientious. What a foolish thing it is to be conscien- 
tious ! I have lost all’ those weeks and months out of my 
life just by that making believe to have a conscience. I 
give it all up. Who was that girl who had a soul when she 
began to love, or did she cease to have a soul as soon as 
she loved ? It makes no difference. Oh, mother ! Do 
you think he will come soon ? Do you remember his face 
as I do ? The look in his eyes ? You always liked him. 
Bless you for that ! But who could help liking him ? I 
hope he will get my note directly. I hope he is not away. 
Now I have written, I wonder so much that I did not write 
long ago. Oh, mother !” 

As that last cry left her lips Salome sank down on her 
knees by her mother’s side, and pressed her face into the 
folds of her mother’s gown. She began to sob in that vio- 
lent, reckless fashion which reveals how intolerable has 
been a previous restraint. 

Mrs. Gerry bent over and encircled the girl in her arms, 
not saying anything, only making an inarticulate murmur of 
endearment and soothing. 

What she was thinking was that it had all been for noth- 
ing — worse than nothing. And Salome must have suffered 
even more than the mother had guessed. 

The elder woman was tempted to warn the girl to be 
ready for any changes that a year might have made in 
Moore. And Moore had been sent away at the last with 
absolutely no hope, so far as he could gather hope from 
anything Salome had said. She had been on a pinnacle of 


EXPECTING 


25 



resolve and sacrifice. Rather than endanger the happiness 
of her lover she persisted. And she had some kind of an 
idea that suffering would atone for that crime of forgery. 
Not that she could bring home to herself any sense of re- 
pentance. But to suffer might atone ; to suffer deeply and 
continuously. How should she know that suffering never 
atoned, that nothing atones for the past ? 

At last Salome looked up. She pressed her hair back 
with both hands. 

“ Now that I have written,” she said, “ I know that every 
minute I have lived since I saw him was only a minute that 
was leading up to the time when I must write. If you love, 
nothing else seems worth while, mother.” 

The pale, sensitive face was so charged with emotion 
that Mrs. Gerry, looking down at it, had a recurrence of the 
old sharp anxiety concerning her daughter’s physical wel- 
fare. She did not speak, for she was afraid that she could 
not command her voice. 

In spite of her penetrative love, Mrs. Gerry had not sus- 
pected how liable Salome was to this outbreak. She had 
come to believe that the girl had been calm, or at least that 
she was becoming calm ; “ reconciled ” was the word Mrs. 
Gerry used in thinking of the matter. It seemed to her that 
she was thinking of the subject continually. Sometimes 
she felt that her judgment was no longei^reliable. She sat 
there now with her hands on her daughter’s shoulders, feel- 
ing as if she were brought face to face afresh with a diffi- 
culty with which she could not grapple. 

It was a new thing for Mrs. Gerry to feel helpless. She 
sat silent, grave, not trying to respond in words to anything 
Salome had said. She foresaw suffering and trouble. But 
she knew that the girl was looking forward now to hap- 
piness — looking forward inconsistently, groundlessly, the 
mother thought. 

“ Haven’t you anything to say to me, mother ?” Salome 
asked this after the silence had continued for many mo- 
ments. “You think that I ought not to have written.” 


26 


OUT OF STEP 


Mrs. Gerry sat upright. 

“I think that you are a human being, and must take 
matters into your own hands. It seems to me that you 
sent Mr. Moore away under the same conditions which are 
in force now that you recall him.” 

Salome flung out her hands. “ Yes, yes !” she exclaimed. 
“ But I can bear it no longer. I have been too scrupulous. 
I said to myself I would be a New-England girl. I would 
act like your daughter. But I give all that up ’’—another 
gesture of the hands — “yes, I am going to do with my 
life as I will, as you say. I thrust the past behind me. He 
knows what I am— what I have done. He begged me to 
let him know if I changed my mind. But I told him he 
must expect nothing — nothing.” 

“ Salome, listen to me,” said Mrs. Gerry, with a compell- 
ing emphasis in her voice; “when a man absolutely ex- 
pects nothing, he gives up hoping— he looks elsewhere.” 

“ What is that you are saying ?” 

Salome had risen. She now turned quickly as she spoke, 
and there was a shrillness in her tones. 

“ Oh, my child !” exclaimed Mrs. Gerry, “ don’t hope too 
much.” 

“ But I cannot hope too much. When Mr. Moore came 
that last time to see me I knew his heart, his very heart. 
Oh no, I cannot hope too much.” 

Mrs. Gerry’s lips closed in a way that showed that she 
would say no more. 

Salome continued moving about the room in a restless 
manner, her face glowing, her eyes dilated and full of light. 
At last she was ready for bed. But she did not think of 
sleeping. She put her hand under her cheek and lay look- 
ing out into the dusk of the summer night, listening with 
far-away thoughts to the sounds made by the insects. 

She was following her letter to Moore, going every step 
of the way with it until the moment when it came into the 
young man’s hands. She saw him read it — the one line 
which was all she had written ; she imagined the look 


EXPECTING 


27 


which would come into his face — she knew his face so 
well. How ignorant her mother was to think it necessary 
to warn her against disappointment ! Did she not know 
Randolph Moore better than any one else could possibly 
know him? 

She and her mother were very busy during the next few 
days trying to get settled in the little house they had hired. 
Salome worked like one for whom everything was glorified. 
She kept count of the hours with eager accuracy. 

When the time came that her letter should reach Moore, 
the subtle excitement upon her was almost unbearable. 
But she kept telling herself that he might be away — he was 
travelling so much. 

“ S’lome simps to be a good deal more facultied ’n she 
used to be, somehow,” remarked Mrs. Scudder to Mrs. 
Gerry, as the two women were laying a straw matting in the 
very small south chamber of the Ledge house. 

Both Mrs. Scudder and her daughter Nely were giving 
up a day to helping the Gerrys to get settled in their new 
home. This was done at Nely’s instigation, and the school- 
girl was at this moment scrubbing the kitchen floor, and 
occasionally lifting herself upright on her knees to look at 
Salome, who was washing a window in the same room. 

Suddenly Nely gave a short laugh. Salome turned with 
a question in her movement. 

“Ain’t it funny?” exclaimed Nely, and she went on 
laughing. Then in a moment she continued: “To think 
that anybody should ever say you’d been disappointed, 
Salome Gerry. If ’twas any other girl in the world I 
shouldn’t think it so strange.” 

“ I’ve just as good a right to be disappointed as any 
one,” was the response. And then Salome’s laugh was 
joined to her companion’s. 

“Jest hear urn,” said Mrs. Scudder, on the floor above. 
And she added that it really did seem wonderful that Sa- 
lome could wash winders jest like any other girl. ’N’ she had 
as much faculty about it as she, Mrs. Scudder, had herself. 


28 


OUT OF STEP 


“ She even borrowed my wooden skewer ’t I saved from 
our last roastin’ piece of meat, to dig out the corners with. 
Now, I do think it’s a mighty good sign as to what kind of 
a house-keeper you be, if you use them wooden skewers to 
dig out corners in winder- sashes. There ain’t nothin’ like 
them skewers. They go into the corners, ’n’ yet they don’t 
scratch. I ain’t a mite afraid to use um on my parlor 
winders. Yes,” reflectively pausing, with a hammer in her 
hand, “ skewers is a real good sign.” 

Mrs. Gerry was measuring round a beam and trying to 
fit the matting. She remarked explanatorily that Salome’s 
having been sick so much when she was growing up had 
made a difference in her knowing how to do things. But 
she had always been willing to work. “ I don’t know what 
I should have done without her.” 

Mrs. Gerry’s firm voice was not quite so firm in this sen- 
tence. She was thinking of the heartaches and the anxie- 
ties her daughter had brought her, and that she could bear 
them all for the sake of the love Salome showed her. 

“ Of course you don’t,” responded Mrs. Scudder’s gentle, 
comforting tones. “ I do believe this mattin’ ’s goin’ to 
run short somehow. If there is a bare place, le’s have it 
under the bed. Jest hear Nely go on,” as Nely’s laugh 
sounded up the open stairway. “ She’s jest kinder be- 
witched with your S’lome. I do believe she’d do anything 
in the world for her.” 

Hearing those words, Mrs. Gerry suddenly paused in her 
work. She turned her face aside, lest there should be some 
visible change upon it. 

She had not thought of that — of Salome’s influence. 
How strange that she had not thought of that ! And the 
girl was to be assistant at the high-school, and be associ- 
ated with young people who would look up to her more or 
less. That personal charm which belonged to her daughter 
would have its effect. But underlying that charm there 
should be what Mrs. Gerry had always called “ principle.” 
There was nothing else really worth while. And Salome 


EXPECTING 


29 


had not principle. She had tenderness, kindness, love, a 
strong individual attraction. This latter her mother could 
not feel as others might feel it. 

Mrs. Gerry rose to her feet, leaving the matting unfitted. 
She did not know why she rose. She only knew that she 
was possessed with a desire to hinder in some way some- 
thing which Salome might do if she were with young peo- 
ple. How long would it be before Nely Scudder, for in- 
stance, began to suspect that Salome did not have the 
necessary regard for the truth for its own sake? Not that 
Salome ever told glaring lies, or not often. But she would 
sometimes slide over things in what seemed to her mother 
the most unaccountable, reprehensible way. Not to shield 
herself, but to make things pleasanter. 

Not until this moment had Mrs. Gerry realized the ter- 
rifying fact that she herself was becoming less and less 
horrified by this proclivity of Salome’s.- Living day after 
day with one so dear to her as this only child, with one 
so lovable and so winning, the enormity of the way Sa- 
lome had of dealing with truth did not impress her with 
such insistently vital force as it ought. 

The mother was sure of that now. She ought not to have 
allowed Salome to take that position at the high-school. It 
was true that she had not been consulted by her daughter, 
who had acted suddenly and hurriedly in the matter. 

Mrs. Gerry’s conscience sprang up alert and alarmed. 

“ What’s the matter ?” asked Mrs. Scudder, looking up 
and speaking with a tack in her mouth. “ Did you pound 
your thumb ? I ’most always pound my thumb ’fore I git 
a carpet down, though mattin’ ain’t so hard on thumbs 
quite.” 

Mrs, Gerry immediately crouched again into position to 
resume her work. She said that she had been thus far . 
saved from pounding herself. And she explained no 
further. 

Below -stairs, while Salome twisted her cleaning -cloth 
about the point of her skewer, Nely again asked her com- 


30 


OUT OF STEP 


panion if she ever really had been disappointed. In Nely’s 
eyes to be disappointed must be an experience which, though 
perhaps painful, must still be something to distinguish one 
for all one’s remaining life. Next to a prosperous love an 
unprosperous love would be the thing to know. 

“ And did you really have a beau down there in Florida, 
Salome ?” 

The elder girl flashed a quick look at Nely, who was sit- 
ting back on her heels with her mop dripping in her hands. 

“ It isn’t good taste to talk about one’s lovers — not that I 
had lovers,” answered Salome. 

“ Oh, dear !” cried Nely, slapping her mop on the floor. 
“But I do wish you’d tell me if you were crossed in love. 
Sometimes I just almost wish I could be crossed in love. It 
must make one feel so important. Don’t you think so ? To 
be ’round with a long face, you know, and go into corners 
and weep ; and to pine away just as if you were eating slate- 
pencils and cloves, but knowing all the time it wasn’t slate- 
pencils and cloves, but only just love. I declare, it must be 
splendid. Only just before I really died I should want to 
take a turn and get well, and curl up my lip in scorn when 
my beau came crawling after me to make it all up. I 
should certainly want him to come crawling on his mar- 
row-bones finally, so I could scorn him. Oh, wouldn’t it 
be fun !” 

Nely bent over, and began scrubbing with great force. 
She had a very uncertain feeling as to whether Salome had 
been crossed in love or not. She thought not, however, for 
she could not conceive that any young man should not be 
willing to give his eyes for her favor. 

The house-cleaning below-stairs went on with unneces- 
sary fury for some time. 

Above, the matting was at last spread with an accompani- 
ment of gentle, amiable talk on Mrs. Scudder’s, and a seri- 
ous silence on Mrs. Gerry’s part. 

On the following Monday, Salome went to her school du- 
ties. She gayly kissed her mother, who followed her into 


EXPECTING 


31 


the dooryard, and watched her walking away with that 
swift, easy gait which was characteristic of her, now she 
was well. 

Since Moore had not come immediately, Salome knew 
that he was on one of his business trips, and she could 
not know when to expect him — or, rather, she could not 
help expecting him all the time. But she said nothing 
more about him. She went every morning down the soli- 
tary high-road towards the village. And her mother said 
nothing. She could not help going to the end of the gar- 
den which overlooked the steep hill along which her daugh- 
ter descended on her way to her work. She would watch 
the girl there, furtively watch, lest Salome might turn round 
and see her, and imagine that she was anxious. 

And as the days went on until they became weeks, Mrs. 
Gerry became so anxious that she hardly dared to look 
fully at the girl’s face. There grew up a significant silence 
between the two — a silence on all topics but the most triv- 
ial ones. They would talk for many minutes on the advisa- 
bility of having eggs or corned-beef for dinner the next day, 
or whether Salome should take her umbrella or not. And 
when a friend from the old neighborhood toiled up the hill 
to see them, the visit was material for almost never-ending 
conversation. 

Mrs. Gerry’s forehead had a deep line down the middle 
of it. But there was no line on the girl’s forehead. She 
grew serious of face, and there came a thoughtful, wonder- 
ing droop to the corners of her mouth. And the clear pale- 
ness of her skin increased. She conversed a good deal 
about her pupils and the characteristics of a few to whom 
she felt attached. She studied algebra in the little time 
there was after the lamp was lighted, when the long twilight 
was over. She continued to be amiable. She looked open- 
ly at her mother, but her mother avoided her glance as if 
she had something to conceal. 

A bitterness began to grow in Mrs. Gerry’s heart. Self- 
controlled as she had tried to be all her life, she found it 


32 


OUT OF STEP 


now Strangely difficult for her to maintain her usual man- 
ner. When her daughter was at school Mrs. Gerry had 
times in the day when she would walk swiftly along the 
road in the direction of the railway station, two miles dis- 
tant. She would walk until she came to where the road 
turned, and she w'ould stand there looking along the high- 
way, her eyes contracting, the frown on her forehead deep- 
ening. If she saw any of the townspeople approaching she 
would walk on in her ordinary prim, straight manner. But 
when she was alone she allowed her face to settle directly 
into that expression of bitter, painful inquiry. The stern 
eyes seemed to question every foot of that road that led to 
the station. But nothing had thus far answered those stern 
questions. The warm sunshine fell peacefully on the soli- 
tary road. When the crows flew over it the woman stand- 
ing there recalled those times in Florida when Salome had 
shrunk from the sight of those birds. She was afraid that 
she also was growing superstitious. 

It was the end of the fourth week, and Moore had given 
no word. Already the hot sun and the intense blue heavens 
gave token that the meridian of the summer had come, that 
the season was ripening, and that some time it would fade. 

“ Even if he had been in Europe, he ought by this time 
to make some sign.” 

Mrs. Gerry, in this fourth week, was continually saying 
these words to herself as she went about her work, or when 
she took those walks to the corner of the road that led to 
the station. 

She did not notice that Salome ever looked in the direc- 
tion of that corner. 

In this week the woman rose in the night, and moved 
noiselessly to the door of her daughter’s room, which the 
girl kept shut. Formerly, this door had been allowed to 
remain open. 

The mother would stand motionless, her white, straight 
form dimly outlined. 

But her keen ears never heard any sound in the girl’s 


EXPECTING 


33 


room. Once Mrs. Gerry put her hand softly on the latch. 
She felt as if she must open the door and see Salome. But 
she restrained herself. At last she crept back to her bed 
again. 

Mrs, Gerry always endeavored not to bewail what had 
happened, what was beyond recall in the past. But now 
she could not help exclaiming many times a day in her 
solitary work : 

“ If she only had not written ! If she only had let what 
is gone rest ! Now how can she bear it } How can she 
bear it He is like other men. He has consoled himself, 
as he had a right to do. Yes, he has consoled himself. 
That makes everything simple. Since nothing has changed, 
Salome should not have written.” 

These words repeated themselves so many times in Mrs. 
Gerry’s mind that she almost thought she was possessed 
by them. She was impelled to say them to Salome, but she 
would not. 

Finally it was to the two women who so loved each other 
as if they were living in an exhausted receiver, where they 
could not breathe freely — at least, it seemed so to the elder 
of the two. And it was ominous of she knew not what that 
Salome should choose to be so silent. Of course, it was a 
phase that would soon pass. 

At last, in the fifth week, as Mrs. Gerry was saying, “ Of 
course, he has consoled himself,” she looked up from the 
dishes she was washing — looked through the little window 
over the sink. She saw Moore coming along the road where 
she had so often walked to meet him. He was coming 
quickly, and yet she thought there was no eagerness in his 
aspect. He was so far away that she might easily have 
been mistaken as to his identity. But she knew that she 
was not mistaken. 

She drew her hands from the dish-water and wiped them 
on the roller-towel, her eyes fixed all the time upon that 
figure which grew more and more familiar. 

It was in vain for Mrs. Gerry to condemn herself for 
3 


OUT OF STEP 


being so excited. There was nothing left for her but Sa- 
lome and Salome’s life, and she felt that she had less 
strength to contend with unhappiness and loss for her 
daughter than she had had when unhappiness and loss were 
possible in her own individual destiny. 

But the woman who unclosed the door in response to 
Moore’s knock did not reveal traces of excitement. 

The moment the door was opened the young man me- 
chanically took off his hat and stepped into the little 
entry. He put out his hand, looking with some entreaty at 
his companion. 

When Mrs. Gerry, after a perceptible hesitation, put her 
hand in his, Moore suddenly bent down and kissed her 
cheek. His eyes were visibly full of tears ; but the tears 
did not fall, and they were gone immediately. 

The two went into the sitting-room, which seemed con- 
fusedly to Moore not much larger than the entry, and as if 
he could not move in it. He pushed forward a chair, and 
when Mrs. Gerry had seated herself he continued standing 
before her. 

The woman did not know why she should have expected 
that Moore should be changed in person. Merely the pass- 
ing of a year does not materially alter a man who is not 
yet thirty. 

Directly she saw him, Mrs. Gerry felt the old attraction 
come to the front again. His face had a somewhat thinner 
contour, otherwise it was just the same. 

It appeared not to be easy for either to speak at first. 
There was an air of expectancy about Moore. He stood at 
attention. While he now looked at his companion, he yet 
seemed not to see her. 

“ She is well ?” he asked, finally. 

“ Yes.” 

He threw back his shoulders and took a long breath. 

“ I was afraid,” he began, and then hesitated — “ I was 
afraid she might be ill.” 

Mrs. Gerry shook her head. 


EXPECTING 


35 


“ Where is she ?” 

Moore’s air of attention increased, and it was plain that 
he was trying to conceal the evidence of the intensity of his 
interest. 

“ She is at school. She is assistant.” 

Mrs. Gerry was glad that she could be allowed a chance 
to speak commonplace words. 

“ She is able to work?” in surprise. 

“ Certainly ; she is well,” Mrs. Gerry answered. 

Moore made a slight movement, as if he would walk 
across the room ; but he restrained the impulse, and re- 
mained standing in the same position. 

Afterwards Mrs. Gerry, in thinking of him, wondered how 
any one so without motion could yet give so vivid an im- 
pression of intense life. There was no longer any lack of 
eagerness about him. But Mrs. Gerry could not tell why 
the eagerness was, as it were, under protest. 

“ She wrote to me,” suddenly said the 5^oung man. “You 
knew it ?” 

“ Yes.” 

Mrs. Gerry wished to say that it was some time ago that 
Salome had written; but she remained silent. It was Moore 
himself who now made the remark that he had received the 
note nearly five weeks ago. 

Having said this, he no longer tried to be quiet. He 
turned and walked to the window. He gazed through it in 
silence before he asked : 

“ When will she come ?” 

There was something in Moore’s voice as he put that 
question that made Mrs. Gerry suddenly start from her 
chair and go to his side. He turned, and the two looked 
at each other. The woman found it hard to meet the pas- 
sionate wistfulness in the man’s eyes. 

“ When will she come ?” he presently repeated. 

“ Not for three hours yet— not until the afternoon session 
is over; and often she stays with some of the scholars.” 

Moore took out his watch as he heard this answer. 


36 


OUT OF STEP 


“ It would not do for me to go to the school ?” he asked. 

“ Oh no. You see, her time is not her own during the 
session.” 

“ And I must wait three hours ?” 

Mrs. Gerry nodded. She had in mind the fact that he 
had already waited a good many days since he had received 
Salome’s note. To wait still longer might be possible, 
then. She did not put this thought in words, but Moore 
exclaimed : 

“ I know what you are thinking, and I can’t blame you. 
But I have had a fight — yes, I have had a fight.” 

He turned abruptly away again, and renewed his restless 
movements about the room. His face was gradually be- 
coming deeply flushed. 

Mrs. Gerry did not ask for any particulars concerning the 
struggle he had just mentioned. But she was so deeply in- 
terested that it was difficult not to show that interest. She 
had resumed her seat when Moore had begun to walk. 
Her eyes followed him persistently. It was so strange to 
see him again — so strange, and yet his presence immediate- 
ly seemed so familiar and so dear. Mrs. Gerry was obliged 
to own that his presence was, very dear to her. In spite of 
the keen perplexity of the moment, the woman was con- 
scious of that sense of comfort and pleasure which she had 
known before when with Moore. She would have said that 
it did her heart good to be near him. 

He came back and gazed down at her intently. 

“Tell me,” he suddenly broke out, “has she suffered.?” 

Mrs. Gerry hesitated. Her instinct sprang up to shield 
her daughter. Still, why shield her from this man who 
loved her and had come back to her ? 

“ Why don’t you speak ?” cried Moore. “ Are you afraid 
of hurting me ? Perhaps she has not cared so very much, 
after all. I wish you would tell me.” 

“ She must have cared, since she has written to you,” 
said the mother. “ But she has been very brave — wonder- 
fully brave.” 


EXPECTING 


37 


“ Well, then,” with an indescribable movement of the 
head and shoulders, “ that is more than I can say. I 
haven’t been brave. I’ve been a miserable coward. I have 
thought a thousand times that life was not worth the living 
without her. I have resisted until resistance was loathsome 
to me. How I have hated the weeks and the months be- 
cause I couldn’t hope that they would bring me to her! 
But I didn’t seek her. I obeyed her. I tell you, Mrs. 
Gerry, a man is a fool who obeys a woman when she tells 
him to keep away from her. But Salome was so earnest ; 
she took it as an affair of morality, and I thought I must 
do as she said. I wish I had come back to her a hundred 
times : anything rather than to have done as I have done. 
You see, a man has to live all his life just to find out how 
to live,” 

“ What have you done ?” Mrs. Gerry asked this the 
instant there was a break in her companion’s torrent of 
words. ' 

Moore looked at her in silence. Twice he appeared to 
be about to burst forth into speech again, but he did not. 
At last he said, with comparative calmness : 

“What have I done? I have gone right on loving Sa- 
lome. You surely can forgive me Jfor doing that, can’t 
you ?” 

He looked at his watch again. He went to the window 
and gazed out over the fields. 

“ It’s a long time to wait,” he said, as if speaking to him- 
self. Then presently he added that he would stroll about 
the country. He would meet Salome when she came from 
school. Which way should he go ? 

Having received his instructions, he left the house. Mrs. 
Gerry watched him until he disappeared in the birch thick- 
et of an adjoining field. Then she patiently returned to 
her housework, conscious of a dim kind of thankfulness 
that she had work to do and strength with which to do it. 
But she was not able to resist the temptation to look 
repeatedly down the hill towards the school-house, and to 


38 


OUT OF STEP 


look and look long before it was time for the school to 
close. 

‘‘How childish I am !” she exclaimed aloud, on every 
visit to the end of the garden. But within five minutes she 
would repeat that visit. 

Once as she stood there a light open buggy, drawn by a 
swift, powerful horse, came rapidly along. The animal was 
pulled in suddenly. There was only one occupant of the 
carriage — Walter Redd. At the first glance at him Mrs. 
Gerry almost thought that he had been drinking ; his face 
was a dark crimson, his eyes having a red look in them. 

He rested the hand that held the reins on one knee and 
spoke in his usual fashion. 

“ Did you know Moore was ’round here ?” he asked. 

Mrs. Gerry nodded. She had a certain sense of fear 
upon her, like bodily fear. She thought it was curious that 
she should at that moment recall the newspaper paragraphs 
of murders in lonely places. 

“ Did Salome expect him was Redd’s next question. 
It was very unlike himself that Redd did not wait for any 
reply to that inquiry. He went on directly : “ I don’t 
think it ’ll be very good for that fellow if he makes any 
more trouble for Salome.” 

“ But, Walter,” eagerly began Mrs. Gerry, “ don’t you know 
I told you it wasn’t Moore’s fault ? And it’s true.” 

“ I know you told me so. Of course you’ll shield him. 
There’s something about him that took me in, too. I don’t 
expect but what you think it wasn’t his fault. But I wish 
he’d kept away from here. I do think that Salome might 
have kind of settled down and got reconciled. And here 
he comes again. By George, I wish he hadn’t come !” 

Redd did not raise his voice, but he spoke more and 
more rapidly. He did not wait for any reply. He s-hook 
the lines on the horse’s back. The animal sprang forward. 

“ Walter ! Walter !” cried Mrs. Gerry. 

But Redd apparently did not hear. He did not turn his 
head. 


Ill 


“ WHY DID YOU WAIT ?” 

Moore, as he had walked up from the station, had 
seen the big horse coming along the road. It had ap- 
proached swiftly, and the driver of it, sitting alone in the 
carriage, had stared hard at the man walking so fast. To 
Moore that man’s face was familiar, yet at the moment he 
could not quite place it in his mind. And why was there 
something so baleful in it ? 

When the horse and wagon had gone on, and the hot, 
dusty highway was solitary again, save for his own figure, 
Moore exclaimed : 

Why, it was Redd !” And then he had immediately 
forgotten Redd. He had something far nearer his heart 
to think of. 

Now when he had left Mrs. Gerry, he went as hurriedly 
as if he had not almost three hours to kill before he could 
hope to see Salome. He pushed through the birch thick- 
et, and never stopped in his walk until he came to another 
road which went curving through a pine wood. 

His face was steaming with perspiration. He took off 
his hat and tried to remain quietly sitting by the wayside. 
He leaned back against a tree, and gazed down the dim, 
secluded highway. He thought it was beautiful. He said 
aloud that it was beautiful. But he knew that he cared 
nothing at all for it. He looked at his watch again. It 
had taken him just thirteen minutes to come here. He 
supposed that the time would pass, since time always did 
pass — if you could only endure it. He rose impatiently 
and crowded his hat down upon his head. 

There was some one turning the curve far along in the 


40 


OUT OF STEP 


gloom of the pine-trees. It was a woman, too. It was a 
young girl. 

Moore’s face suddenly grew pale from the furious beat of 
his pulses. He began walking quickly. For some reason 
Salome might have left school earlier. The two drew near- 
er each other. It was Salome. 

She suddenly stood still. He could see her hands hang- 
ing clasped tightly in front of her. He could see those 
hands and her white face, and yet it seemed to him that 
there was something over his eyes. And yet in his haste 
he stumbled, and it took him so long to reach her that he 
felt as if he were in a dream. 

But he did reach her. He had her in his arms, and he 
looked down at her face on his shoulder. Why should 
either of them speak ? 

After a while the two were walking slowly along under 
the trees. Moore was still holding his companion closely. 
He had said : 

“ I had to come.” 

She had looked up at him and answered, softly, “ Yes, of 
course you would come.” 

And then there was a long silence while they walked aim- 
lessly, and looked at each other. 

Salome had thought that when he came she should ask 
him many questions, she should tell him many things ; but 
now that he had come she felt as if she had no speech. 
And what were mere words, now that he was with her ? 
There was no fact in all the world but the fact that he had 
come to her. 

In this first moment there was no shrinking, no maidenly 
self-consciousness in the serious, full gaze that met his. 
It was her soul meeting his in his eyes. 

It was Moore’s face which suddenly changed in some in- 
describable way. There was still the rapture of the meet- 
ing in it. But there was something else in it — a memory, a 
cloud came to it. Whatever it was it seemed intolerable to 
him. Before she could speak he exclaimed : 


“why did you wait?” 


41 


“ Oh, why didn’t you write me that line before ?” 

“ Before ?” she repeated, in a puzzled way. “ But it is 
now a long time since I wrote. You have been away?” 

“No; I haven’t been away. I received your note the 
day after you sent it.” 

Salome looked at him in surprise. She moved a little 
away from him. 

“You were kept from coming?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he answered, hesitatingly, “I was kept.” Then 
he reached forward and took her hands tightly, exclaiming 
again, and even with fierceness : 

“ Oh, why didn’t you write a few months before ? I tell 
you it’s a devilish thing you have done by waiting all this 
time !” 

These words seemed so entirely unlike Moore, and the 
blackness now in his face seemed also so entirely unlike 
him, that Salome stared and shrank away. 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” she said at last. 

She tried to stand erect and removed from him. But he 
would not let her. 

“ You ought to know what I mean,” he went on, rapidly. 
“ You told me there was no hope. Do you remember those 
times when I came again and again to Augustine to plead 
with you? You wouldn’t relent. You loved me, but you 
were hard as a stone in your resolution. I wanted you. 
Since I knew all about you, and you were not deceiving me, 
you ought to have married me then. And all this time I 
have tried not to hope that you would send me word. Fi- 
nally I gave up hope — that is, I gave it up so far that I 
had made up my mind that I’d do all J could to shut out 
the memory of you. Salome, do you understand me ?” 

He turned towards her with a mixture of passion and 
regret upon his face that had a terrible effect upon her. 
She was stunned, bewildered, but she did not know what he 
n^eant. 

“ Do you understand me ?” he asked again. 

“ No, no,” she answered. 


42 


OUT OF STEP 


“Didn’t you ever think that there comes a time when a 
man — or a woman, I suppose — gives up hoping, and tries 
to put away every thought of what he believes he cannot 
have ? Didn’t you ever think that ?” 

“No,” said Salome, again. She was trying, in a vague 
and feeble way, to recall what her mother had said to her — 
was it upon this subject ? What was coming ? Had her 
mother been right, in some way? Perhaps people who 
were older had learned some things. But it was of no good 
if they had — of no good. She could not learn by the ex- 
perience of other people. 

When she had said that last “ No ” Moore was for a mo- 
ment unable to go on. He thought there had been no 
words made fit to use in a moment like this. And yet how 
could he keep silent ? 

Salome was now walking apart from him. She had 
quietly insisted upon withdrawing herself. 

She suddenly turned from the road and sat down on a 
stone. She took off her hat, and pressed her hands for an 
instant to her head. 

Moore stood before her, gazing down at her with the look 
a man gives to that which is inestimably precious. The 
black look was gone from his face. But there was still in- 
tense suffering there. 

At first she did not glance up at him. 

“ Oh, Salome !” he said, softly. 

She looked up at him now. He appeared to resist some- 
thing; then he threw himself down on his knees by her side 
and put his arms about her. She was frightened by the 
solemnity in his face. 

“ What is the matter ?” she asked, after a pause, during 
which she had gazed intently at him. “ Why don’t you tell 
me ? You say I ought to have sent for you before ; but 
now that I have sent for you, it seems all wrong.” 

“ Yes ; it is too late,” 

When he had said this Moore suddenly pressed his face 
against the girl’s shoulder. She felt him shudder as he did 


“why did you wait?” 


43 


so. She wondered why she was so calm. She thought she 
ought to be very thankful that she could be so calm, for 
surely a great, a terrible trouble was upon her. It had 
come to her, since Moore could say that “ it was too late.” 

But she was sure that he loved her. She was sure of 
that. Then how could it be too late ? Could it be that — 
Here Salome sprang away. Moore rose quickly to his feet. 

“ What !” cried the girl, “ is it Portia Nunally ?” 

“ Yes,” said Moore. 

“ Oh !” 

Having uttered that cry, Salome’s lips closed as if it 
could not be worth while to open them again. She picked 
up her hat from the thick carpet of pine-needles upon 
which she had thrown it. As she did so she thought that 
those needles would be a good place upon which to lay 
herself down. Would it not be a pleasant thing to do, to lie 
there until she died ? Of course, she should die in a very 
little while. Her mother would be very sorry — her mother 
would miss her as long as she lived. 

Salome turned to her companion. 

“ I will go home now,” she said. 

She placed her hat on her head. She drew her hands 
across her face as if she were smoothing away something. 
She could not be grateful enough that she was so calm. 

She began to walk onward quickly. Moore kept by her 
side. They had gone only a few rods when it seemed as if 
fire suddenly flashed through Salome’s brain. But her face 
kept its pale tint. Only her eyes were red. She was not 
calm any longer. Perhaps she had not been calm at all. 

“Portia Nunally!” 

She pronounced the name with such an accent that the 
very air seemed to thrill with it. Then she laughed as 
she went on : 

“ I was very stupid, wasn’t I, to write to you ? As you 
say, a man — and perhaps a woman also— gives up hope 
after a while. A man tries to forget suffering. That’s the 
way to do. It was so very stupid of me to write to you. 


44 


OUT OF STEP 


And how strange that I had forgotten Miss Nunally ! I 
did not forget her for a long time. She is not a woman to 
be forgotten. But when I knew that she had gone to Eu- 
rope with Mrs. Darrah, I did forget her. I thought that 
she was occupying herself with other plans. Oh, Mr. Moore, 
you see how silly I have been !” 

Salome pulled a little silver watch from her belt and 
looked down at it, wondering as she did so why her eyes 
burned in that way. 

‘‘ Mr. Moore, what time does your train go she asked. 

There was no answer. Moore was striding on with his 
head bent. He was asking himself incessantly one question : 

“ Why didn’t I wait ? Why didn’t I wait ?” 

Then he told himself furiously that it was perfectly nat- 
ural that he should not have waited any longer without a 
shadow of hope. But since he loved Salome, why marry 
at all if he could not marry her? 

But it was perfectly natural, perfectly natural — with vio- 
lent insistence in his own mind — that he should seek for 
some consolation. If he had ever thought himself to be 
different from other men, he could now assure himself that 
he was precisely like the ordinary human being. 

“ Does your train start soon, Mr. Moore ?” 

As Salome repeated this question, the young man turned 
towards her. 

He was feeling that he must find some terrible words to 
throw from him like missiles. If he could not find them, 
how could he speak ? What an accursed imbecile he had 
been in that he had obeyed this girl and kept away from her! 
For a freak she had forbidden him to come. Now a freak 
had made her write to him that she had changed her mind. 
Of course she had changed her mind — and changed it too 
late. 

“ I don’t know when my train starts,” he at last made 
answer to her question. “ Are you in a hurry for me to 
go?” 

“ Yes.” 


45 


“why did you wait?” 

She stopped in her walk. Her hands were pressed on 
her chest in the gesture she had learned when she was 
subject to that painful oppression there. 

“ Didn’t Miss Nunally go to Europe ?” she asked. 

She looked like one who is impelled to press a knife into 
a wound. 

“ Yes, she went,” was the answer. 

“ But she did not stay ?” went on Salome. 

“ No ; she did not stay.” 

“ You have seen her often ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“I knew” — here Salome paused, but only for a brief 
space. She began again, “ I knew that she loved you — at 
least, I felt sure of it.” 

There was no response from Moore. He also had stopped 
in his walk. He stood looking at his companion. He 
heard but vaguely the name of Miss Nunally. He was 
trying to overcome his tempestuous and unreasoning anger 
— his anger at fate, at God, at the whole universe. Why 
should he be made to suffer so ? What had he done that 
this agony should be inflicted upon him ? 

“ Mrs. Darrah has written to me a few times,” said Sa- 
lome. “ She said that Portia had engaged herself to a man 
over there in London — to a man who was greatly in love 
with her, and who was rich.” 

“ Yes,” said Moore, in the same short way. 

“ It did not last, then ?” questioned Salome. 

“ No ; it did not last.” 

Salome was congratulating herself that she could speak 
consecutive sentences. But she wished that her eyes did 
not burn so. Since Moore was going to marry Portia, of 
course it was natural that she should show some interest. 
But she longed for Moore to go. At any moment it might 
happen that she would lose the power to speak consecutive 
sentences. And when that time came she would rather be 
alone. She did not understand why she should for a breath 
feel that she could not endure the excitement upon her, and 


46 


OUT OF STEP 


then should think she was calm. But she felt that Moore 
ought to go. 

She glanced up at him. She was aware immediately that 
she was saying : 

“Perhaps you are already married.?” 

She thought it would be something of a relief if he should 
say yes to that question. 

“ No ; but it is the same thing, so far as honor is con- 
cerned. I am to be married next week — next Tuesday 
evening, at half -past seven o’clock. Just four days from 
now. What a lucky thing it was that you should send me 
that note, Salome !” 

“ Does Portia know I sent it ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Then I don’t see why it cannot be the same as if I had 
never sent it. My mother knows, but that changes nothing. 
Let it be as if I had not written it, Mr. Moore.” 

“ Certainly; just as if you had not written it. How easily 
you solve questions, Salome !” 

The girl glanced up at him again. Then she made a 
quick movement forward. 

“ Oh, I must go ! I must go !” she cried. 

She hurried on along the dusty road. Moore stood watch- 
ing her. He was trying to resolve to let her go. Surely 
it was best now that she should go. What more had he to 
say to her? Absolutely nothing. He could never have 
anything more to say to her as long as he lived — not if 
he were an honorable man. Then another phase of honor 
came before him. The final vow had not been spoken. 
Perhaps when Portia understood matters she would release 
him. He had been greatly attracted to Portia. A vision 
of her now was with him : she was captivating ; she never 
made a mistake; she never grated upon his mood; she 
had soothed and comforted him — above all, she had con- 
vinced him that she loved him. He could not doubt that 
she loved him. There was her power ; there had been her 
power all along. 


WHY DID YOU WAIT?” 


47 


“ I will tell her,” he thought. Then he began to hope. 
He wished that he had not waited so long since he had re- 
ceived Salome’s note. He had been fighting the same fight 
over and over ever since. If he were going to hold to his 
word, the one way to do was to write to Salome ; the one 
way to do was to avoid seeing her. That potent power of 
personal presence, the memory of which unavoidably fades 
somewhat in absence, that was the power to be avoided. 
And here he was with Salome again, and the first moment 
had proved to him that that mysterious force which drew 
him to her was strong as ever — nay, it was stronger. 

He had been gradually building up a shallow belief that 
he could be happy with Miss Nunally. Miss Nunally had 
such exquisite tact ; she was so entertaining ; so audacious, 
yet not too audacious. And she loved him! 

It was now late to be convinced that he should simply 
have lived on without trying to build up anything. How 
could he know that the first impulse of one who has lost 
the best is to try and put something else in its place ; to 
pretend that something else is best, though knowing pite- 
ously all the time that it is not. 

“ I will tell her,” he now said, aloud. 

He hastened after Salome. 

“ I will tell her,” he said, eagerly, when he had reached 
her side. 

“ You will tell her ?” 

Salome said the words after him. She did not under- 
stand what he meant. She hardly thought it necessary that 
she should understand. There was one fact that was very 
plain to her. 

“ Yes, I will tell Portia,” went on Moore, quickly. “ She 
will know. She will remember that I have loved you ever 
since I saw you. She will refuse to marry me. She does 
not know how I have been thinking of you always, though I 
have tried so hard to forget. I suppose she believes that I 
have forgotten.” 

Salome made no response to these words. She had re- 


48 


OUT OF STEP 


sumed her walk, going forward intently as if her one object 
were to reach the end of the wood. She was thinking that 
she wished she could be at home. She wanted to be under 
the roof with her mother. Her mother had been right. 

“ I am going to explain to Portia,” said Moore, again. 
“Salome!” impetuously, “won’t you say anything to me? 
Don’t you care for me 

He realized, as soon as he had spoken those words, that 
it was very weak to put such questions. But the sense of 
being defrauded, cheated out of happiness, was so great in 
his mind that he could not speak as he ought. He was 
groping confusedly and madly after the love that he felt 
was his, but that he could not grasp and hold. Still, even 
in this confusion he was conscious of a dim sense that he 
might be stronger, more manly. 

“ You need not ask me if I care for you,” said Salome. 
She slackened her pace, turning towards her companion. 
Her face and attitude brought back to Moore those walks 
through the scrub palmetto in Florida. 

“ Oh, can’t we be happy ?” she suddenly cried out. “ Why 
should it be wrong to be happy ?” 

The entire unexpectedness of this exclamation, the sweet- 
ness of it, came to Moore with an indescribable effect. But 
when he made a swift movement towards her she put up 
her hands and shrank away from him. 

“I must be very wicked,” she said, brokenly — “very 
wicked indeed. Oh, Mr. Moore, I wish you would go away. 
Do go I I have been trying all these months to be good. 
You see I really tried. And now that I have left the South, 
now that I have come where it is so wicked to be happy, 
and where everything is rigid and upright— oh, don’t you 
see how I must have fallen to be able to send you that 
note? All at once I could not hold out any longer. But 
it isn’t of any use. You are going to be Portia’s husband. 
Mr. Moore, why do you stay here ? Haven’t I told you that 
I wanted you to go ?” 

Moore shut his mouth tightly. 


WHY DID YOU WAIT ?” 


49 


“Yes, you have told me that,” he said. “Please don’t 
say it again. It won’t make any difference if you do. I 
shall stay with you every moment that is left me. I tell 
you,” he cried out again, “ it’s a terrible thing you have 
done ! You have trampled our lives under your feet just 
for a whim. You sent me away. I knew all about you. 
What if you had forged ? What if you had done this thing 
or that? Were you not still yourself? Still the woman I 
love? You thought I couldn’t be happy with you. You 
said you were afraid you were not upright. God ! didn’t 
you know I loved you ? Is that some one coming ?” 

He asked this last question in an angry tone as a figure 
turned into the road far ahead of them. 

Salome tried to look along the road. Though there were 
no tears in her eyes, the hot cloud still over them prevented 
her |it first from seeing with any distinctness. But directly 
she recognized Nely Scudder, who was advancing rapidly. 
Then, as Nely saw the two in the road, she slackened her 
pace. 

Moore felt that it was impossible for him to meet any 
one now. And he perceived, with a sense of intolerable 
injury, that Salome was relieved at sight of that person 
coming. 

He said something about seeing her again — that he must 
see her again ; then he turned and hurried away. 

Nely Scudder came forward hesitatingly. She was alarmed 
at sight of Salome’s face, but she was intensely interested 
and alert. She was sure that here was something roman- 
tic. She had never been sure in her own mind as to wheth- 
er the new assistant teacher had been disappointed. Nely 
thought she would give anything to know whether that very 
handsome and “ stylish ” young man was Salome’s beau. 
And had they been quarrelling ? 

But she could not ask. 

“ You look awfully !” she said as she came up, trying to 
put on an expression that should give no token of her hav- 
ing seen any one save Salome. But she found she could 
4 


50 


OUT OF STEP 


not quite succeed in this, so she gave a short laugh, and re- 
marked that she hoped she had not frightened anybody 
away, and she was going right along; and anybody that 
thought she was going to stay, and so had run off, might 
just as well come back. 

Having spoken thus, Nely’s eyes sought Salome’s face 
again, and then she sprang forward crying, distressfully : 

“ You do look sick ! Has that man been saying anything 
disagreeable? I declare I just hate him !” 

Salome had stood trying to recall her power to speak. 
Now she sat down on the pine-needles. She motioned to 
the girl to sit beside her. 

Nely flung herself down at her side and began to cry. 

“ Oh, what’s happened ?” she asked, tremulously. Then 
she shook her fist in the air, and repeated that she “hated 
him !” In the bottom of her heart was now the conviction 
that Salome had been disappointed; how nor why she could 
not imagine. It seemed impossible, too. 

“ ril kill him !” she said, in a violent whisper. “ I’ll kill 
anybody that makes you look like that. I don’t believe you 
have any idea how you look, Salome. Why, you look just 
awful !” 

Salome placed her arm about Nely’s waist, but she did 
not speak. It did not occur to her that there was anything 
to say. She was aware of a slight, dim sense of comfort 
in this contact with a human being who loved her. She 
knew very well that Nely had an enthusiastic affection for 
her. 

“ Can’t you speak ? Can’t you speak ever again ?” 

Nely put these questions in the most anxious manner. 
She made a movement to rise, saying she guessed she 
would go for a doctor. 

She was pulled back again, and presently she felt a soft, 
cold kiss on her cheek. And Salome said : 

“ I can speak well enough. But let’s sit here quietly for 
a few minutes. I will put my head on your shoulder like 
this.” 


“why did you wait?” 


5 


Nely immediately held herself strongly in her position. 
She had a certain feeling of exultation in her anxiety — ex- 
ultation because she was allowed to sit and have Salome’s 
head on her shoulder. To her Salome was the very perfec- 
tion of woman. Mrs. Scudder often told her daughter that 
she “did wish that Nely would talk of something ’sides 
S’lome Gerry. Not but what S’lome Gerry was well enough, 
but she s’posed there was other folks in the world jest as 
good.” 

Here Nely would toss her head and reply : 

“Just as good? I don’t care if there is. It isn’t good- 
ness that makes you love anybody. But she’s just as good 
as she can be, too. She isn’t like folks that I’ve seen be- 
fore, ^that are so uninteresting that you can’t stand it, any- 
way. Do you s’pose, mar, it’s because she almost had 
consumption and went to Florida ? Or what do you s’pose 
’tis ? If I thought ’twas that, I d’ know but I’d just up and 
have consumption, and then par would send me to Florida ; 
and then maybe I’d begin to be interesting.” 

Here Nely would laugh shrilly. Once she added, with 
more seriousness than her mother quite liked : 

“ I certainly would do ’most anything if I could be any- 
where near as interesting as Salome Gerry.” 

“ I guess you’re full up to the average, Nely,” responded 
Mrs. Scudder, proudly. “ ’N’ I guess S’lome is jest what 
she is ’thout anything to do with Floridy. She’s a pleasant, 
pretty-lookin’ girl, but I must say I don’t see nothin’ re- 
markable in her.” ^ 

“ You don’t ? Well, that’s* the queerest thing I ever did 
hear,” said Nely. 

It was on one of these occasions that Mrs. Scudder asked 
if it was gen’rally thought that S’lome give good satisfaction 
as assistant at the high-school. 

Nely took the ground of not knowing and not caring. 
She said that it was against any person not to like Salome. 

“ Have you heard anything ?” sharply. 

Mrs. Scudder said she hadn’t heard anything of any ac- 


52 


OUT OF STEP 


count. But she believed Mis’ Hill did say that some con- 
sidered that S’lome wasn’t quite strict enough in some 
things. 

“Pooh!” retorted Nely, “who’s Mrs. Hill, any way, I 
should like to know ?” 

“ She’s a real good woman, Nely,” was the reprimanding 
reply. 

“ I don’t care if she is. She hasn’t brains enough to fill 
the half of a peanut shell,” said the girl. 

“ It ain’t her fault if she ’ain’t, and nobody wants to fill 
peanut shells with brains. You shouldn’t talk so, Nely. I 
s’pose,” with an air of unmistakable interest, “you ’ain’t 
never heard for certain whether S’lome’s ben disappointed 
or not, have ye?” 

It was this question, often repeated, that now recurred 
to the girl as she sat under the pine-tree with Salome’s 
head resting on her shoulder. 

Who was that man ? Nely had never seen any one in the 
least like him, and her glimpse of him had been tantaliz- 
ingly brief. Yes, it must be almost a positive fact that Sa- 
lome had a love affair, and it did not seem as if it could be 
just like other girls having beaus and getting married. No, 
there was something different about this. 

Nely sat in perfect stillness. She was afraid to breathe 
deeply lest she should disturb her companion. If only 
Salome would tell her something. Nely felt within her- 
self an unlimited capacity for keeping secrets and for sym- 
pathizing. Next to having a love affair of her own would 
be the fortune that should make her the confidante of 
the love affair of some one else. And it really seemed 
as if now she was right in the midst of something as good 
as a novel ; only she felt worse than any novel ever made 
her feel. She liked a good cry when a heroine was suffer- 
ing, but some way this was different. 

She tried to look down at the face on her shoulder, but 
she could not see it without moving her head, and she was 
resolved not to move. 


“why did you wait?” 53 

She was somewhat frightened that Salome should be so 
very still. Again that wish recurred to go for a doctor. 

Nely bore it as long as she could, and then she said 
“ Salome !” in the smallest kind of a whisper. 

“Yes,” said the other girl, without changing her po- 
sition. 

“ Oh, do, do let me do something for you !” cried Nely, 
in an agony of anxiety. “ I wish you’d just move, or some- 
thing, won’t you ?” 

Salome raised her head. She smiled at her companion. 

“You needn’t worry about me,” she saidj quietly. 

Nely clasped her hands tragically. 

“ Can’t I help you ?” she asked, with such a wistful em- 
phasis that Salome smiled again. 

“ Why, you have helped me by just sitting beside me and 
being still,” she said. 

“ Oh, have I ?” doubtfully. 

“ Yes, indeed. And now let’s go home. This isn’t much 
of a half-holiday, after all, is it ? Where were you going ?” 

“ I was coming of an errand for mother over to your house.” 

“Well, come now.” 

The two rose and began walking slowly out towards the 
opening in the wood. 

It seemed to Nely that she could not contain her sympa- 
thy nor her curiosity ; but the latter she would not express, 
“ not if she died for it,” she told herself. She tried not to 
let her eyes wander towards Salome ; somehow it appeared 
dishonorable for her to try to pry into her companion’s se- 
crets ; but in spite* of all her efforts she could not keep her 
glance from going with humiliating frequency to the face 
near her. 

She was rather disappointed that Salome did not wring 
her hands ; she had an ill-suppressed desire also that Sa- 
lome should tear her hair. Surely that was the way a real 
heroine should do under such conditions. 

Having had these thoughts, Nely had sense enough to be 
ashamed of them, though she could not put them quite away 


54 


OUT OF STEP 


from her. At last she recalled that some first-class heroines 
were proudly composed and self-contained. That was really 
the way to be, of course. 

Very soon the two girls emerged from the shadow and 
were going over the crisp gray moss of the pasture. The 
sunlight was very bright and warm here, and the air w^as 
full of the scent of cedar and bayberry and sweet-fern. 

The sunshine, falling full upon them, seemed to have a 
noticeable effect upon the elder of the two. She stopped 
and turned her head towards the west, where in deep-blue, 
cloudless spaces the sun was going slowly down. It was 
yet some hours, however, to the sunset. 

Salome pushed back her hat. There was a pathetic 
eagerness in the way she looked upward. 

“ You’ve heard of people being what they called marked 
with something, haven’t you, Nely?” she asked. 

Nely was surprised, but she answered immediately : 

“You mean when they like or dislike something so much 
that they are unreasonable ’s they can be ?” she asked. 

“Yes, just that. And you don’t think they’re quite re- 
sponsible, do you ?” 

Salome put this question as if even this child’s answer 
would be of some weight with her. 

Nely stared an instant before she replied : 

“ No, I don’t see how they can be, do you ? There’s Ann 
Tomlins, you know ; she can’t bear the sight nor smell of 
strawberries.” 

“ I remember Ann Tomlins,” said Salome. “ Nobody 
blames her for it, I suppose.” 

“ Why, of course they don’t !” with some indignation. 
“ But I guess I don’t know what you are thinking about.” 

“ I was thinking that I am marked with a love of the sun. 
That’s why I liked Florida so well. It was never too hot 
for me. If I can have the sun, hot and clear, I can bear a 
good many things. We have to bear a good many things, 
don’t we, Nely?” 

Nely did not know why something in that voice affected 


“why did you wait?” 


55 


her so that she began to cry. She turned and flung herself 
into Salome’s arms and cried as if her heart were breaking. 
Salome held her closely and spoke soothingly to her. In a 
few moments Nely lifted her head and declared that she 
was just as silly as she could be, and she was sure she 
didn’t know what was the matter with her. “ But oh, she 
did long to comfort Salome so !” 

Salome laughed a little gently at this, and then they 
went on again, now among the birches through which 
Moore had come a short time ago. As they came out and 
in sight of the cottage among the rocks just above them, 
Salome paused, catching Nely’s hand as she said : 

“ You can keep a secret, can’t you, Nely?” 

“Oh yes !” proudly. 

“ Don’t tell, then. I should hate to have Mrs. Hill and 
all the rest talking. You understand?” 

“Oh yes!” again, “you can trust me. And — and — ” 
Nely paused and then burst out, “ Ain’t you going to be 
happy, Salome ?” 

Salome involuntarily turned her face up towards the sun 
again. The pallor of that face and the glow in the eyes 
made a deep impression upon Nely. She had never seen 
any one look like that, and she did not in the least know 
what it meant. How could she know that Salome, least of 
all, knew what it meant ? 

Salome seemed to rouse herself. 

“ Happy ?” she said. “ Oh, I don’t know. Mother says 
it is not necessary to be happy. It is only necessary to be 
in the right.” 

“ Oh, dear !” cried Nely. Then in a moment, “ Isn’t that 
your mother beckoning to us ? Do I look ’s if I’d been 
crying ? Laura Hunt says I show it ever so long after I’ve 
been crying. I don’t know what I should do if anybody 
should ask me if I’d been crying. I’ll just stop long 
enough to have your mother give me the rule for that Har- 
rison cake. We’ve lost ours, and we expect a lot of com- 
pany next week.” 


f. 


They hurried up the rise in the road. Just before they 
reached the gate Nely paused long enough to say : 

“You needn’t be a mite afraid that I shall ever tell as 
long as I live.” ^ 


IV 


“as if something were going^to happen” 

“ I s’posE you don’t want to ride down to the village, do 
you ?” 

Mr. Scudder was standing before the six-inch mirror that 
hung in the back porch for his especial benefit. He had 
taken off his overalls, and was peering into the glass and 
putting a comb through his hair. His hair now grew mostly 
around what might be called the edges of his head, and he 
combed it up towards the place where it did not grow. He 
had done all his “chores” an hour earlier than’ usual, as he 
always did on those nights when he went to the village. 
He had not heard any news for a whole week, and he was 
conscious of a desire to sit on the piazza of the store and 
hear what was going on. Pelly Loomis’s horse had had the 
colic, and Mr. Scudder did not yet know whether it had lived 
or died. He had not heard whether Eb Tilson had kept 
his potato-vines any more clear of bugs than he had done 
last season. If Eb had been as slack as usual, Mr. Scud- 
der felt that he wouldn’t give seventy-five cents for the whole 
crop of potatoes. 

Mrs. Scudder was passing what she called “ a handle- 
brush” rapidly in front of and at the sides of the cook-stove, 
that she might remove any “clutter” incident to getting 
and clearing away supper. Nely was still standing at the 
sink washing the supper-dishes in the most desultory and 
indifferent manner. Her mother had said two or three 
times at the table that she didn’t know, she was sure, what 
was the matter with Nely. She- “looked as if she had been 
crying her eyes out, but you couldn’t get nothing out of 


58 


OUT OF STEP 


her.” The girl had come home that afternoon from Mrs. 
Gerry’s with the rule for Harrison cake, and “ she had been 
just as odd as she could be ever sence.” As long as the 
school-master had given them a half-holiday, because he 
wanted to visit schools that afternoon, Mrs. Scudder had 
supposed that Nely would be in good spirits. She wanted 
the girl to go blackberrying, but Nely hadn’t shown any 
interest in anything. “ And she wouldn’t say nothin’.” 

All this Mrs. Scudder had confided to her husband at the 
first opportunity. She concluded by remarking that if Nely 
hadn’t had the measles she should think she was coming 
down with them, and should give her sage-tea. 

But Mr. Scudder had only laughed, and remarked that 
Nely was a gal, ’n’ if they expected to keep track of all the 
notions a gal could have they’d have their hands more’n 
full. To this Mrs. Scudder had responded by making the 
incontestable statement that she herself was a gal once. 

Now Mr.‘ Scudder repeated his remark from the back 
porch, that he s’posed she didn’t want to ride over to the 
village. She said she didn’t know as she did, ’n’ she didn’t 
know but she did. 

“ Well,” he said, “ you c’n be findin’ out while I’m hitch- 
in’ up.” 

Then he walked out to the barn. 

Nely began to hurry as she put away the dishes. A mo- 
ment later she dashed out to the barn and said : 

“ Mother’s going, par ; ’n’ I wish you’d put in the other 
seat, because I want to go, too. I’m sick as death of just 
staying right here all the time.” 

“All right,” responded Mr. Scudder, raising his head 
from the effort required to put the collar on the horse. 
“ It ’ll be all new to you over to the village, won’t it ?” 
Here he grinned. 

“’Twon’t, either,” answered Nely, “but my head feels so 
bad that I guess the ride ’ll do me good.” 

“ Mebby ’twill. Anyway, it’s a mighty pleasant night. 
You bring out my coat when you come ; ’n’ tell your mar 


AS IF SOMETHING WERE GOING TO HAPPEN 


(( 




59 


not to prink too long, for it gits dark earlier ’n’ earlier ev- 
ery night now.” 

In a few moments more the Scudder house was locked, 
and the Scudder family were all in the “ democrat,” which 
was being deliberately pulled along the road by the Scud- 
der horse, whose days of hurry seemed long since over. ^ 
Mrs. Scudder sat precisely in the middle of the back seat, 
and Nely was on the front seat with her father. There was 
not much conversation, as the equipage moved at a snail’s 
pace up hill and down, and along the short level spaces. 
Sometimes Mr. Scudder pointed with his whip to some piece 
of land which, in his estimation, “ wa’n’t worked right.” He 
and his wife occasionally exchanged a few words. Mrs. 
Scudder remarked that she didn’t know’s old man Forbes 
was shinglin’ his barn ; and Mr. Scudder responded that 
the old man had ben threatenin’ to shingle it any time the 
last ten years, and he, for one, was glad he’d got at it 
It was a muggy night. The sun, as it neared the west, 
was sinking deeper and deeper into a bank of dark cloud. 
There was not a breath of wind. The horse, though it did 
not move out of a walk, was wet in streaks where the har- 
ness touched it When the carriage came near any trees 
the shrill cries of the katydids were confusing. 

“ ’Tain’t the kind of a afternoon I like,” said Mr. Scud- 
der, looking back over his shoulder at the west “ I didn’t 
notice as ’twas all cloudin’ up so. If I had I d’ know’s I 
should have started. Foolish weather enough for that 
medder hay ’t I cut this mornin’.” 

Mrs. Scudder also looked back over her shoulder. But 
she said ’twas a dry time and she didn’t look for rain till 
after the moon had changed. 

Nely, sitting by her father, said nothing. She hardly 
heard the words spoken by her companions. Her whole 
mind seemed to be filled with what she had seen and heard 
in the pine-woods that afternoon. She had never been so 
interested in her life. Her mind appeared to be bursting 
with the weight of her thoughts, and she could not speak 


6o 


OUT OF STEP 


of them to any one. A sense of importance swelled her 
consciousness. But she could keep a secret, she could be 
loyal. She did not know but that she should almost wel- 
come tortures in behalf of Salome Gerry. How Salome had 
looked ! She certainly must be in love with that man who 
had seemed so agitated, and who had walked away so hur- 
riedly. 

“ What ye thinkin’ of, Nely ? What ye got on yer mind ?” 
The girl was aware that her father had put these questions 
to her. She roused and replied promptly that she wasn’t 
thinking of anything, and she hadn’t got anything on her 
mind. She ended by exclaiming : 

“Ain’t it hot?” 

She took off her hat and began fanning herself violently 
wdth it. 

The sun had now gone into the dense cloud, and the 
quickly going twilight of late summer had come. Faint 
streaks of “ heat lightning ” played above the horizon. 

Mrs. Scudder threw back her shawl ; she never went 
anywhere without a shawl, even in midsummer. 

“ I declare,” she said, “ it’s as much ’s I can do to ketch 
my breath. It’s one of them times when you wouldn’t be 
a mite surprised if something happened.” 

“ That’s just the way I feel, mother,” cried Nely, in eager 
response. “ I’m all worked up, somehow.” 

“ Oh, pshaw !” returned Mr. Scudder, “ that’s jest like 
women. I guess there won’t nothin’ happen beyond a 
change in the weather towards morning. Come, Molly, don’t 
ye shy. If you begin to shy such a night ’s this I sh’ll 
think the women are right, ’n’ something is goin’ to happen.” 

Mr. Scudder laughed comfortably as he pulled in the 
reins. Molly shied afain and her driver touched her with 
the whip. 

“ What pesky thing ’s the matter with the mare ?” he ex- 
claimed. 

Nely leaned forward. Then she put her hand on her 
father’s arm. 


“as if something were going to happen” 6l 

“ Father !” she whispered. Her eyes glowed in the 
dusk. 

“ Well ?” said Mr. Scudder with some impatience. 

“ Seems to me Molly’s gittin’ skittish in her old age,” 
said Mrs. Scudder from the back seat. “ Lemmy git out if 
she’s goin’ to cut up. Dwight, lemmy git out.” 

“ Set still, Rebecca,” was the answering command. “ I 
guess I c’n manage Molly. If I can’t I’ll let you git out. 
G’long !” lifting his whip. 

But Molly only shied again. 

“ I swern !” said Mr. Scudder, with some force. “ I 
d’ know what’s got into Molly.” 

The animal did not seem to wish to go on. When her 
master touched her with the whip again she did not move 
forward, she only jumped a little aside. 

“ Dwight,” cried Mrs. Scudder, “ lemmy git out !” 

She. began scrambling over the side of the democrat, not 
minding her husband’s repeated command to “ set still.” 

In her estimation it was high time to leave any vehicle 
to which Molly was attached when Molly began to shy. 

They had raised Molly, and Mrs. Scudder remembered 
that it was more than twenty years since the mare had been 
anything but steadiness itself. 

She did not know how she did it without having the wheel 
turned, and those who know what are the difficulties in 
the way of leaving a democrat from the back seat, under the 
best of circumstances, will wonder how a somewhat bulky 
woman, who had had rheumatism, accomplished. this feat. 

But Mrs. Scudder floundered and scrambled out between 
the wheels. One of her lifelong principles had 'been that 
she would never stay in a carriage when the horse was 
“ acting up.” She would hardly have been more startled 
if the saw-horse in the woodyard at home had begun to 
“ act up.” 

As soon as she could gather herself together she turned. 

“ Nely,” she said, sharply, “git out ! If your father wants 
to stay there ’n’ git run over we can’t help it. You git out.” 


62 


OUT OF STEP 


“ I ain’t afraid,” replied Nely, making no movement to obey. 

“I guess, Rebecca,” remarked Mr. Scudder, “that you’re 
the one that ’ll git run over. We can’t git run over till we 
jump out. Now, you’ll have the fun of gittin’ in agin. 
Molly’s all right now.” 

As if to illustrate this remark, the mare began to snort 
and paw. 

“You call that bein’ all right, do you?” retorted Mrs. 
Scudder. 

“ Father,” said Nely in a half voice, “do you see any- 
thing over there in the bushes under that tree ? That’s 
what makes Molly act so. Oh, I’m frightened ! I thought 
I saw something before, and then I thought I didn’t. I’m 
just as frightened as I can be !” 

Nely put her foot on the carriage step and swung herself 
as far out as she dared, clinging to the iron hold as she did 
so. Her curiosity was great ; but she had a strong feeling 
that she did not wish to leave the carriage until her father 
left it. 

Mr. Scudder’s eyes turned towards the spot his daughter 
had mentioned. Then he cried out : 

“ I do believe there is something there !” 

He threw the lines towards the girl, saying, “ You hold 
them,” then he sprang over the wheel with the agility of 
twenty years. 

He walked quickly up to the bushes, which showed that 
they had been trampled upon. Among the bushes lay a 
man. He lay with that entire stillness which is so dreadful 
to look upon. 

“ Father,” said Nely from the wagon, almost beside her- 
self with fright and curiosity — “ father, who is it ?” 

But there was no answer to this question. The girl had 
a conviction as to who that person lying there was. She 
did not know why she had this conviction, but she never 
doubted the truth of it. 

Mr. Scudder and his wife were now bending over the 
figure among the bushes. 


“as if something were going to happen” 63 

“ Father,” cried Nely, “ is he dead ? Is he dead ?” 

But there was no answer to this question either. It was 
in silence at first that the two examined the insensible man. 

“ I can’t make out whether he’s dead or not,” at last said 
Mr. Scudder in a low voice to his wife. 

She had not touched the man, but she answered directly, 
in the same voice : 

“ I don’t reckon he’s dead, somehow ; but mebby he is.” 

“ What’s goin’ to be done, anyway ?” asked the man. 

“ Fathei* ! Father !” came the shrill voice from the wagon, 
“ who is it?” 

“ Can’t you be still, Nely ?” asked her mother. The girl’s 
penetrating voice was a kind of desecration of the strange 
stillness which seemed to have come with the discovery of 
that form among the bushes. 

“ What’s the best thing to be done, do you think?” asked 
Mr. Scudder again, appealing to his wife’s never-failing 
common-sense and kindliness. 

“ I’m thinkin’,” she responded. “ S’pos’n we git him 
right into the democrat and take him to the house ? We 
c’n all git him in, I guess. You take out the back seat ’n’ 
leave it here. ’Tain’t quite a mile back home, ’n’ it’s over 
two mile to the village. Then you go right back for the 
doctor. I guess that’s the best we c’n do, don’t you think 
30 ?” 

“ Yes, ’tis.” 

Having said this, Mr. Scudder stepped quickly to the 
carriage, and began to unfasten the screws which held the 
back seat in place. 

“ Father,” said Nely, twisting about in her place, “father, 
is he dead ? I should think you might tell me !” 

The girl shivered with excitement and dread. 

“ We don’t know, child,” was the answer. “ He’s layin’ 
there insensible.” 

“ But who is he ?” 

“Nely!” said Mrs. Scudder, reprovingly. “He’s a 
stranger. We don’t know who he is.” 


64 


OUT OF STEP 


Nely clinched the reins tighter than before. 

“ It’s that man,” she whispered to herself. “ Oh, what 
has happened ? And what will Salome do ?” 

She watched the movements of her father and mother. 
She saw them try to lift the man. Then her father came to 
the horse’s head and backed the animal so that the end of 
the wagon was close to the bushes. He let down the tail- 
board. 

“Nely’s strong,” said Mrs. Scudder. “Come here’n 
help ! Molly ’ll stand now, won’t she, Dwight 

“ Yes, she’ll stand.” 

The man looked up and down the road. 

“ I didn’t know but somebody ’d be cornin’ along,” he 
said. 

But in the deepening dusk no one could be seen. 

“ Come, Nely,” said Mrs. Scudder. 

The girl slowly descended. She shuddered and shrank. 

Yes, it was that man. She had been sure of it. And 
she believed he was dead. Oh, what would Salome do ? 

“ Come, Nely, help your mother,” said Mr. Scudder. 
“ There ain’t no time for notions now. He’s a good-sized 
man, but we c’n git him in well enough. There. P’r’aps 
we’ll bring him out of this all shipshape. He’s young, and 
young folks stand ’most anything.” 

The stranger was now lying in the bottom of the carriage. 
Mrs. Scudder mounted, with almost the agility her husband 
had displayed, and arranged her shawl for the man’s head 
to rest upon. 

“ I wish you could git Molly out of a walk, Dwight,” she 
said. “ The sooner we c’n have a doctor the easier I sh’ll 
feel.” 

Mr. Scudder took his seat. Once more he glanced along 
the road to see if, haply, some one might come by whom he 
could send word to the village. But there was no one. He 
gathered up the lines. 

“ I guess I’ll set over here and hold his head,” said Mrs. 
Scudder. 


“as if something were going to happen” 65 

She spoke in a low voice. Her face was filled with an awe- 
struck gravity that was not without a hint of tenderness 
when her eyes rested on the face she now placed on her 
lap as she sat on the floor of the wagon. 

Even in this fixed expression there was that in Moore’s 
countenance which could attract. And the helplessness, 
the fear that life would not come back, impressed this group 
of simple people as the more worldly-wise would also have 
been impressed. 

The old mare was made to understand that this was an 
occasion when she would do well to recall her former vigor 
and speed. She trotted home briskly. Twice during the 
few moments that the journey required Mr. Scudder turned 
and asked, “ Has he come to any yet ?” And each time 
Mrs. Scudder said “ No.” 

And Moore had not “ come to ” in the slightest degree 
when he had been placed on the bed in the little spare bed- 
room and Molly was on her way, still at a brisk trot, to the 
village for the doctor. 

But Mrs. Scudder knew now that the young man breathed. 
He was not dead. That was all that she could ascer- 
tain. 

She sat by the bed and directed Nely to bring mustard 
and hot -water cloths. She rubbed Moore’s hands and 
chest while she waited for Nely to fetch what she had or- 
dered. She wondered how he had been hurt. She had 
found no blood upon him. 

But the mystery of the circumstances was absorbed in the 
woman’s anxiety. 

Nely ran back and forth between the bedroom and the 
kitchen stove, where she had made a fire. The heat in the 
low- browed rooms was intense, but she did not think of it. 
The clouds had spread themselves over the whole sky, and 
it was very dark. Sometimes there was a low, distant 
grumble of thunder. 

Once Mrs. Scudder, taking a hot cloth from her daugh- 
ter’s hand, said she should think by the sound that the 
5 


66 


OUT OF STEP 


tempest was workin’ round towards the south. She didn’t 
think they’d ketch the heft of it here ; she hoped, anyway, 
it would clear the air some. 

The perspiration was dropping from her face. The small 
blaze of the kerosene lamp seemed to heat the room un- 
bearably. Outside, against the screen -cloth tacked upon 
the window, the moths were dashing themselves in their ef- 
fort to get to the light. 

Moore’s long length lay motionless on the bed. His yel- 
low beard was more closely cropped than usual and his hair 
also was cut short, save for the locks which hung longer 
over his forehead. 

His face was very peaceful as Mrs. Scudder looked down 
at it. That expression which might be called a mixture of 
manliness and tenderness, which his face when at its best 
often showed, was visible now, and the two women were 
greatly moved by this and by his helplessness. It is when 
the strong are helpless that the latter state is most appeal- 
ing. 

Nely, having delivered the last towel, with which she had 
nearly scalded her hands in wringing from the water, stood 
gazing down at the man. 

She was thinking that she didn’t wonder that Salome 
loved him, if she did love him. But perhaps she didn’t love 
him, and so he had tried to kill himself. 

This solution of the mystery at first seemed quite plaus- 
ible to Nely. She thought that if she were a man and loved 
Salome, and Salome did not return that love, she should 
want to kill herself — only that she was always so afraid of 
being hurt. In addition to all her other emotions on this 
occasion, the girl had to contend with the secret sense of 
importance caused by the fact that she had seen Moore be- 
fore. Half a dozen times this secret almost burst from her. 
She imagined how her mother would look if she should 
suddenly exclaim : 

“ I saw him this afternoon with Salome.” 

The fight she was obliged to keep up to prevent herself 


“as if something were going to happen” 67 

from doing this was a counter-agitation, and perhaps kept 
her in tolerable poise through the hour of waiting that fol- 
lowed. 

After a short time Mrs. Scudder, convinced that she ef- 
fected nothing, ceased to make any more attempts to re- 
store consciousness to her charge. She sat there by the 
bed gently fanning the young man. 

Her thoughts wandered far afield. Strange ideas came 
to her until, as she told herself afterwards, she was kind 
of frightened jest thinkin’ what a woman could think if she 
let her mind run on. 

Once she leaned forward and tenderly pushed that lock 
of hair from Moore’s forehead. 

“ I wonder who his mother is,” she thought. “ I’m thank- 
ful she don’t know ’bout this. I’ll do all I can for him. If 
he was my boy, I should want anybody to do what they 
could.” 

Here Mrs. Scudder’s mild, prominent blue eyes became 
misty, and she hastily passed her apron over them. 

There was a decided sniffle behind her chair. 

“ Nely,” said the woman, “ is that you ?” 

“ Yes,” said Nely, sobbing, “ and I shall have sixteen fits 
if I don’t cry. I’m so excited I don’t know what to do.” 

“ Cry, then,” was the instant advice. “ It’s a tryin’ time, 
I do think.” 

Nely pressed her handkerchief to her mouth lest she 
should explain that she was having an especially trying 
time, for she was keeping a secret. 

“ There ! it’s raining !” she cried, as a heavy dash of rain 
came straight down, without a breath of wind to sway it from 
the perpendicular, “and I hear wheels.” 

The girl ran out upon the back porch. She could not 
see anything from the lighted room. She looked into black- 
ness ; the rain hissed upon the dried grass of the yard. It 
made such a noise that she could hardly tell whether she 
heard the sound of horses’ feet softly falling on the turf. 

“ Father !” she shouted. 


68 


OUT OF STEP 


She grasped a pillar of the porch and leaned far out, the 
warm rain dropping heavily on her hair. “ Father ! Is that 
you 

“ Yes,” said a voice close behind her. “ Has he come 
to ?” 

“ No. Did you get the doctor 

“ He was over to Gay’s Corners. Tim Drew’s gone after 
him on his colt. I wish you’d light the lantern.” 

Mrs. Scudder, standing at the open back door, heard 
these words above the swish of the rain, and she could not 
suppress a groan as she heard them. 

“ There ain’t nothin’ to be done, then she said, as her 
husband stepped forward to take the lantern handed him 
by Nely. 

Streams of water were running from Mr. Scudder’s hat. 
The lantern threw into sight behind him the shining, wet, 
solemn face of the mare, with her ears drooping disconso- 
lately outward, away from each other. 

“ Nothin’ but to wait,” was the answer, and Mr. Scudder 
took hold of the bridle and walked away towards the barn. 

When he came back his face showed how intense had 
been his interest during his drive. He hurried into the 
bedroom. But he came back directly. 

“There ain’t no difference in him ’s I see,” he said, in a 
whisper. 

“ No, there ain’t,” responded his wife. 

“ I like the looks of him first rate,” he said. 

Then he retired to take off his soaked clothing. While 
he was gone Mrs. Scudder resumed her seat by the bed on 
which Moore lay. But she hurried again into the kitchen 
when she heard her husband return. 

“ Did you hear nothin’ about him ?” she asked, quickly. 

Nely stood breathless, awaiting the answer. 

“ Not a thing,” said the man. 

“I declare, I sh’d almost er thought somebody’d er 
known something.” 

“ Mebby somebody does,” returned Mr. Scudder, “ but I 


“ AS IF SOMETHING WERE GOING TO HAPPEN ” 


ain’t seen many folks, you know. I don’t believe he’s been 
in the village, anyway. P’r’aps he’s come from the deepo 
’n’ didn’t go to the village at all. He might have walked 
right over to this neighborhood to see somebody or do some 
business. ’Tain’t no use guessin’ ’bout it, anyway. When 
he comes to he’ll tell us who he is.” 

“ If he ever does come to.” Mrs. Scudder spoke with 
great dejection. 

“ He can’t be that relation o’ Luke Johnson’s that went 
to sea, can he ?” suddenly inquired Mr. Scudder. 

“ Dwight !” cried his wife, “ I should think you’d know 
better than to imagine the Johnsons ever had any relations 
that looked like this young man.” 

Mr. Scudder acknowledged that it wasn’t likely. And 
then, having suggested that they should not guess as to the 
identity of the stranger, he went on and made half a dozen 
suggestions of the most preposterous kind. He was ex- 
tremely depressed and excited. He kept walking round 
the kitchen and into the bedroom. He repeated that he 
liked the looks of the fellow. 

The rain continued to fall as if it would never cease. In 
an hour a horse and carriage came rushing into the yard, 
and almost before the wheels had stopped the door opened 
and a small thin man entered. 

“ Scudder,” he said, “ I wish you’d put my horse under 
cover. It’s raining by the pailful. Now, wha is it that’s 
hurt ?” 

He followed Mrs. Scudder into the bedroom. Nely hov- 
ered about near the bed. 

Though the man was only a country doctor, he had sharp 
eyes and common-sense, aside from his education. 

He caught up the lamp and bent over Moore with it in 
his hand, his gaze seeming to dive into the calm face be- 
fore him. To Mrs. Scudder the very calmness of the face 
was something terrible. She had been watching it so long 
that she could now hardly endure that the doctor’s silence 
should continue for a moment; but she respected his silence. 


70 


OUT OF STEP 


Presently Mr. Scudder returned from the barn. He stood 
in the doorway and looked at the bed. 

Perhaps the temptation to act the part of an oracle is 
naturally strong in a physician. To act the part of an 
oracle might veil many things. But there was no reason for 
speaking, and Dr. Sands did not speak for a long time. He 
passed his hands deftly and searchingly over Moore’s body. 
He turned the head from side to side on the pillow ; he 
lifted it and looked at it. 

Mrs. Scudder used to say afterwards that if she was ever 
out of patience with any one, ’twas with Dr. Sands that 
night when he came to see that young man. 

At last the physician straightened himself. 

“ Well,” he said, more as an exclamation of relief to him- 
self than as an address to any one. 

“ I do hope you’ve found out something,” said Mrs. Scud- 
der, more sharply than she usually spoke. 

“ Oh yes,” said the doctor. He thrust his hands into his 
pockets and gazed down absorbedly at his patient, com- 
pressing his lips and wrinkling his forehead. 

“ Beautiful, neat kind of a blow,” he said, addressing 
himself. 

“ Is he going to come to ? That’s what I want to find 
out.” 

As he spoke Mr. Scudder advanced into the room. He 
had an inclination to shake Dr. Sands, holding him by the 
back of his coat-collar; 

“Oh yes,” replied the doctor; “I reckon on his coming 
to if we can do the right thing for him. I’ll go down to the 
station and wire up to Boston for Jennings. He’s about the 
man for this case. He can take the midnight train that 
stops at the Corners, and I’ll meet him. Now, who is the 
fellow, anyway? Have you looked in his pockets? We 
might as well send for his mother, if he’s got one. You 
don’t know how things will turn out. Do you know him, 
either of you ? But Tim Drew said nobody knew him, 
didn’t he ?” 


“as if something were going to happen” 71 

As Dr. Sands spoke he lightly but effectively searched 
Moore’s pockets. In the breast-pocket of his coat he found 
two envelopes. One was empty and bore no postmark, but 
it was addressed to Miss Portia Nunally, at a village on the 
“ North Shore.” The other bore Moore’s name, and had 
evidently been received the day before, from the stamps 
upon it. 

This letter Dr. Sands opened, his eye going swiftly down 
the page, his keen, somewhat hard face not changing in the 
least as he read “ My dearest ” at the top in tall, dashing 
handwriting. This letter was signed “ Always your Portia.” 

And that was all the letters. There was a case with 
Moore’s visiting-cards in it, and half a dozen of his firm’s 
business cards were in his waistcoat pocket. It was easy 
to learn who he was. 

Dr. Sands held up Portia Nunally's letter between his 
thumb and finger. 

“ This is the woman to send for,” he said. “ This is the 
woman he was going to marry next week. I’ll wire her, 
too, when I send for Jennings.” 

Nely, hovering about in the room, fastened her eyes on 
the envelope which Dr. Sands still held. Her glance took 
in the woman’s name. So he was going to marry some- 
body else ; he wasn’t going to marry Salome, after all. She 
should just like to know what had made him look at Sa- 
lome that kind of a way; she should just like to know — 
she clasped her hands together in an ecstasy of excitement 
and curiosity. 

Dr. Sands now abruptly went into the kitchen and began 
to put on his rubber coat, which had dripped a long stream 
of water on the floor. Mrs. Scudder followed him instantly. 

“ But ain’t you goin’ to do nothin’ for him ?” she asked, in 
a horrified tone. “ Be you goin’ to leave him jest like this?” 

“ It’s no use to try to give him medicine,” answered the 
doctor, rapidly buttoning his coat; “might as well give 
medicine to a dead woodchuck. Let him lie there ; it’s all 
you’ve got to do.” 


72 


OUT OF STEP 


And Dr. Sands opened the door and ran out to the barn, 
followed more slowly by Mr. Scudder with the lantern. 

“ I do wish,” said Mrs. Scudder — “ I do wish that Dr. 
Sands wouldn’t ’low himself to talk like that. It sounds 
kind of butcherin’, somehow.” 

After a few moments’ consideration Mrs. Scudder an- 
nounced that she should put mustard on that young man’s 
feet, and on the back of his neck, anyway. Mustard never 
did any harm yet, and sometimes it worked like a charm. 

In the hour that followed Nely was going at intervals be- 
tween waiting upon her mother to the little lampstand in 
the bedroom, where lay the letter Portia Nunally had writ- 
ten to Moore, and which the doctor had taken from the 
young man’s pocket. She seemed bewitched by that large 
square envelope. That must be a love-letter, and it wasn’t 
written by Salome to this man. It was written by some 
one else. Perhaps Salome had been disappointed. Nely 
wondered what would happen now. Again she said aloud 
that she was just as excited as she could be. She didn’t 
know but she ought to drink a little red-lavender in a glass 
of water. 

And when that man Dr. Sands had called Jennings came, 
what would be done to that man on the bed there ? 

Altogether, Nely felt that things were happening in a be- 
wildering manner ; but she had a secret consciousness that 
they were romantic. 

Mr. Scudder had walked back and forth from the kitchen 
to the bedroom a few times ; then he had thrown himself on 
a lounge, and, despite his interest, he had fallen asleep, and 
his snoring was mingled with the swish of the rain on the 
porch roof. 

It was now after ten o’clock, and the night was so close 
that it seemed difficult to get air enough to breathe. Nely 
went out Upon the back piazza. Her mother had been 
trying to persuade her to go to bed, but the girl scoffed at 
this idea. She said that she never expected to sleep again 
in all her life. 


AS IF SOMETHING WERE GOING TO HAPPEN 


73 


u 


Now, as she stood there, the rain began to slacken, the 
clouds were less black. Along the west there was a broad- 
ening streak of light ; a wind from the north blew over the 
meadows below the barn. 

“It’s going to clear,” said Nely. 

And as she said those words she started back to the 
house, impelled by a sudden impulse. She would go to 
Salome. She would tell her what had happened. Per- 
haps Salome ought to know. Anyway, she would go ; she 
must go. 

She hurried into the house. 

“ Mother, the rain is over. I’m going out. I’m just as 
nervous as I can be. I’ve got to go. Don’t you worry 
about me. Oh ! ” — as she thought her mother was about 
to remonstrate — “ if you tell me I mustn’t go I shall have 
a fit ! I shall, as true as I live.” 

Nely knew very well that she should beat down any ob- 
jections that her mother might raise ; she had beaten down 
all objections to her own way as long as she could re- 
member. 

“ Do put on your rubbers, then,” was all that Mrs. Scud- 
der’s remonstrances came to. 

In another moment Nely’s skirts were brushing the wet 
grass, or her feet were splashing through puddles, as she 
fled on along the road towards the small house on the 
Ledge. 


V 


AT THE SCUDDERS’ 

Salome, left alone with her mother after Nely had gone 
with the recipe for Harrison cake, turned from her compan- 
ion with a gesture which seemed to say, “ Don’t speak to 
me.” 

Mrs. Gerry obeyed that gesture. She sat down, taking 
up some sewing and resolutely threading her needle, not 
glancing at her daughter, who was standing in the middle 
of the room, with her hand resting on the top of a chair. 

After a few minutes, however, Mrs. Gerry said : 

“ I do wish you would sit down.” 

Then the woman was sorry she had spoken. It be- 
trayed a weakness to speak thus ; and it was Mrs. Gerry’s 
constant desire that she should not betray or feel a weak- 
ness. Ever since her daughter had passed childhood it 
had seemed to Mrs. Gerry that she must be strong, not 
only for herself, but for Salome, also. And, clear-thoughted 
as this woman usually was, there had still been many hours 
of confusion when her mind had dwelt on this subject. The 
fear that she had actually begun to judge Salome by a dif- 
ferent standard from that by which she judged others was 
an increasing fear that amounted sometimes to assurance 
that such was the case. There was only one way to judge 
— was a thing right or wrong ? But Salome — she was dif- 
ferent. A wrong thing done by her was not the same as a 
wrong thing — When she reached this point in that ever- 
repeated train of thought Mrs. Gerry would start back from 
herself in fear of what she might be led to think. And al- 
ways her conclusion was, “ Salome is so different.” 


AT THE SCUDDERS’ 


75 


At times she would break out into the question, “ But 
those others who do such wrongs, are they different, too ? 
Has something made it less a sin, also, for them ?” 

Salome turned to her mother. 

“ Did you speak to me ?” she asked. 

Mrs. Gerry’s face broke from its repression. She put 
down her sewing. It suddenly seemed a kind of irrever- 
ence to sew at this moment. 

“Yes, I asked if you would sit down,” she said. 

“ Oh yes ; certainly,” replied the girl. 

She leaned back in the chair for a moment. Then she 
looked towards where Mrs. Gerry sat. Her eyes had that 
vague, dazzled expression which is sometimes seen in a face 
whose owner is watched. 

“ Mother,” she said, turning quickly, “ I am suffering. I 
am suffering.” 

The words were repeated sharply, but still in a low voice. 

There was no answer directly. Mrs. Gerry was trying to 
summon all her powers to her daughter’s aid. For what 
else did she live, save that she might help her daughter? 
However incalculable was the love, it was impossible that 
human nature should not sometimes be weary. It was al- 
most a deadly weariness now that seemed to paralyze Mrs. 
Gerry’s mind. She had been anxious until it seemed to her 
that she could not feel anxious any more. But in her numb- 
ness there was still a dull misery which helped to confuse 
her. 

“Yes,” she answered, wishing it might be given her to 
say the right thing, but knowing dully her inefficiency; 
“ I feared you might be unhappy. But, Salome, Salome,” 
her voice rising, “you may, perhaps, have to give up happi- 
ness. We have to do that sometimes.” 

There was no answer to this. There was still that same 
blind look in the girl’s eyes. 

“ You have seen Mr. Moore ?” Mrs. Gerry decided that 
words could not be quite so painful as this silence, and per- 
haps if she talked some, light would come to her. 


76 


OUT OF STEP 


“ Yes,” said Salome. “ Did he tell you ?” 

“ He didn’t tell me anything.” Mrs. Gerry was glad she 
was benumbed, because if she had not been, she should have 
gone to her child and have taken her in her arms, and any 
manifestation of affection now would have prostrated her 
still more. And yet she was getting used to things, she be- 
lieved. 

After a short silence Salome said : 

“You were right, mother. I wonder if you are always 
right ? Since I had sent him away, there was no reason 
now why I should write to him ; but I wrote. He came to 
tell me he is going to marry Miss Nunally. Mother, is that 
the way men are ?” 

“ Men and women, I think,” was the answer. “Then this 
is the end of it ?” 

“Yes,” said Salome, promptly, “this is the end of it.” 

She rose and went to the table where lay a package. She 
took it, remarking that she would correct those exercises, 
that she ought to have done it in the morning. She stood 
with the papers in her hand, looking down at them. Then 
she walked to the door and paused with her back to her 
mother. 

“ Why do you say women also are that way ?” she asked. 

“ Because women are also human beings,” was the an- 
swer. “ I tell you people are going to try to console 
themselves if they think hope is really gone.” 

Salome turned about. She smiled as she said that per- 
haps she would console herself. 

“ How agreeable that would be !” she added. 

She went out of the room, but she came back to say 
that perhaps Mr. Moore would come to the house again, as 
they were interrupted in their talk. “ And if he does come 
— mother, are you listening to me ? — if he does come, don’t 
let me see him. If I saw him again, I might ask him some- 
thing. Why, mother, I might ask him to break with Miss 
Nunally and marry me— since we still love each other. So 
you see, plainly, that I must not see him, don’t you, mother .? 


AT THE SCUDDERS’ 


77 


For you wouldn’t have me ask him to do that, would you ? 
That would be what Mrs. Scudder would call, if she knew, 
‘of a piece’ with all the rest I have done. So tell him 
that I will not see him again. And, mother, will you be 
very kind to him ?” 

Salome crossed the room to Mrs. Gerry, and dropped 
down on the wooden footstool where her mother’s feet had 
rested. She flung the package of exercises from her, and 
put her arms about her mother, repeating, with a piercing 
tenderness : 

“ Will you be very kind to him ?” 

Then she placed her face on her mother’s bosom, drew 
a long breath, and was perfectly still. 

Mrs. Gerry also was quiet, holding the girlish flgure with 
a stern closeness. 

Some moments passed thus, and then Salome rose, 
took the package of papers again, and now she left the 
room. 

With those mechanical movements which mean so much, 
or so little, Mrs. Gerry adjusted her glasses, pointed her 
thread, and held up her needle, gazing at the eye as 
she made several fruitless dives at it with her thread. 
She could not And the eye, though she tried again and 
again. But her eyes were perfectly clear, there were no 
tears in them. The tears and the blackness were in her 
heart. 

At last she rose. She folded her work and placed it 
in the chest of drawers. She went to the window and 
looked through it. Mingled with her other thoughts was 
the thought that she ought to sprinkle the clothes for to- 
morrow’s ironing. 

But she was looking for Moore. If he came, she was to 
be very kind to him. He was only like all the rest; he 
could not be hopelessly faithful. But why should he be ? 
That was not like human nature. It was one of the happy 
truths about human nature that it could turn its hopes and 
its happiness into different channels. Perhaps the tide 


OUT OF STEP 


78 

never could rise quite so high in those other channels, but 
what of that ? People adjusted themselves. 

Perhaps Salome would adjust herself. With this thought 
there came to Mrs. Gerry’s mind the thought of Wal- 
ter Redd. A woman’s mind will wander so wildly some- 
times. 

The hours went on until it was supper-time. Mrs. Gerry 
prepared the meal as usual. Since Moore had not come 
again it was not probable that he would come at all now. 
He had gone. That was altogether the wisest thing for 
him to do. Now, as after death or any other calamity or 
blessing, things would settle down into their ordinary course. 
That was one mercy — things had to settle down, and, soon- 
er or later, people accepted everything. 

When supper was ready Mrs. Gerry went to the foot of 
the stairs and called Salome in precisely the same tone in 
which she always called her. 

And Salome came down directly, and ate her toast and 
sugared blackberries and drank her tea. If you had looked 
in upon the two as they sat there you would have envied 
them their coseyness and content. And they talked about 
whether it would pay to dry the seek -no -furthers, or let 
them go and save every one of the Porter apples. 

And all the time they talked each knew that the other 
was listening for a step that might come. Mrs. Gerry was 
continually saying over and over to herself, “If he is wise 
he will stay away ; if he is wise he will stay away.” 

All the same, too, she knew that it was pot like a young 
man to stay away. And why had he come at all ? 

The dusk deepened rapidly into evening, for now sultry 
clouds were heavy in the west. A lamp had to be lighted 
that the supper dishes might be washed. This dish-wash- 
ing was always Salome’s duty, and she performed it now, 
while her mother secretly watched her, dreading and yet 
longing to meet her eyes. 

Notwithstanding her resolution Salome could not help 
hurrying. Once she stopped to look out at the open door 


AT THE SCUDDERS’ 


79 


into the muggy blackness of the night. It was raining 
heavily by this time. 

“ I’m glad it is warm,” she said. “ I want it to be warm 
always. There is the bell down in the village striking eight, 
mother. It sounds muffled, mother,” unconsciously raising 
her voice. “ Why does it sound muffled .?” 

“You know it always sounds like that when the air is so 
thick and heavy,” explained Mrs. Gerry in a careful voice. 

“Oh yes, so it does. I had forgotten that. I’m going 
up-stairs. Good-night ! I hope it won’t be cooler after the 
lightning.” 

Mrs. Gerry rose and hurried to the door, reaching it be- 
fore her daughter. Her worn face was flushed, save that 
about the mouth it was piteously pale. 

“ Salome,” she said, pleadingly, “ why won’t you stay 
down here with me a little while .?” 

The girl moved her head with a distressful motion. But 
she spoke quite cheerfully. 

“ Please let me go up-stairs, mother. I must correct those 
exercises, you know. Good-night ! and you needn’t worry 
in the least about me. I am very strong. And you know 
that women, as well as men, console themselves.” 

Salome left the room, and her mother heard her going up 
the stairs. 

Sitting there alone, Mrs. Gerry was seized by the con- 
viction that Moore would return, and, in spite of all she 
could do, she began nervously to listen and watch for him. 
She extinguished the light that she might better see the 
road in the broad and frequent flashes of thunderless light- 
ning. At first the continuous rush of the rain made it im- 
possible for her to hear the approach of any one. 

She did not think of going to bed. Any comfort, phys- 
ical or mental, was not to be thought of. But surely the 
minutes would go less draggingly if she sat there than if 
she were in bed. 

It was before the clock struck eleven that Mrs. Gerry, in 
one of the lightning flashes, saw a figure coming up the hill 


8o 


OUT OF STEP 


towards the house. The figure was running. She did not 
know if it were man or woman, because it was in a black 
cloak and hat ; but she knew that it was running. 

The woman stood up straight and still, waiting. Some- 
body was coming there. By this time the rain had ceased. 
There was a low murmur of cool wind among the currant- 
bushes in the yard. 

Mrs. Gerry had never believed in premonitions, but she 
had suffered so much that now her nerves were ready to 
play her any trick. Somebody was coming to tell some- 
thing terrible. That was not Moore. 

She started towards the door, stumbling over a chair and 
knocking it down with a loud noise. But, unlike her ordi- 
nary self, she would not wait and reasonably light a lamp 
first. 

She found the door and flung it open ; Nely Scudder fell 
against her. She took hold of the child’s arm and drew 
her in with a sort of repressed violence. 

“ Who is sick ?” she asked in a whisper. “ You can’t 
breathe. Why did you run uphill so ?” 

For Nely, as she came farther and farther in her journey, 
had continued to increase her pace until now her breath was 
beating all through her, and it was impossible for her to 
speak a word. She leaned up against the side of the door, 
her sobbing breath sounding loudly in the darkness. She 
was afraid that in her confusion she might tell what she 
had promised not to tell. 

“ I want Salome,” she cried out at last. 

“ But what — ” began Mrs. Gerry, so puzzled that she 
hardly knew how to frame her sentence. 

A door at the head of the stairs immediately opened, and 
steps were heard descending. 

“ I want Salome alone,” said Nely. 

In the darkness Nely’s hand was grasped, and she was 
drawn up the stairs. 

Mrs. Gerry groped her way into the kitchen, lighted a 
lamp, and sat down alone. There was a curious pang in 



AT THE SCUDDERS’ 


8l 


her heart at this moment that her daughter was not with 
her, that she had withdrawn herself. In the keenness of 
this feeling she forgot to ask, at first, why she had done it, 
and why it could possibly be that Nely should have come 
in the night in this way. 

Up-stairs in Salome’s room there was a brilliant light, for 
Salome had been sitting resolutely correcting her pupils’ 
exercises. She clung to that work as though to give it up 
would be something she could not bear. Now, however, 
her eyes blazed as she held Nely’s shoulders and looked 
down at her. The hardly kept self-control left her so sud- 
denly that she seemed never to have had it. She shook 
the girl. 

“Tell me quickly !” she commanded. 

Nely gasped. 

“ It’s that man,” she cried. She shrank away, frightened 
by the gleaming intensity in the face above her. 

“ What ! what !” cried Salome. “ Why do you stop ? Go 
on, I tell you !” 

And Salome clutched more tightly the slender shoulders 
and shook them again. 

“ The one I saw in the pine woods with you,” Nely stam- 
mered on ; “ we found him ’most dead. He doesn’t know 
anything. I thought you’d want me to come and tell you ; 
I thought — oh, dear. I’m so frightened !” 

Nely staggered back, released from the hands which had 
held her. The girl began to cry loudly and bitterly as she 
used to do when a child. But Salome did not mind her in 
the least. She had turned and taken the lamp. With it in 
her hand she looked vaguely at Nely, thinking of one nec- 
essary question to ask. 

“ Where is he ?” 

“ At our house.” 

Then Salome rapidly went down the stairs. Her mother 
met her with a lamp in her own hand. Salome glanced 
back at Nely, who was following, sobbing with excitement. 

“ Tell her,” said Salome. She took a shawl from a chair 
6 


82 


OUT OF STEP 


in the little entry, wrapping it round her and shivering as 
she went. 

Her mother thought it strange that her daughter should 
say that it was cold. She watched her hurrying down the 
path to the road, the increasing light of the cool blue space 
in the northwest showing her form against the blackness of 
the bushes. 

Presently, perhaps, Mrs. Gerry would follow her. But 
now she turned towards Nely,- who had not yet sufficient 
presence of mind to go with Salome, as she had meant 
to do. 

She replied more coherently to Mrs. Gerry’s terse ques- 
tioning, and in five minutes these two were on the road 
towards Mr. Scudder’s house. 

Can you not think what dreadful thought was foremost 
in the woman’s mind as she walked over the wet highway ? 

She was thinking of Walter Redd’s face and his words 
as he had sat in his buggy and talked to her. But for all 
that, she knew that Walter Redd could not do an evil thing. 

Far in advance of them, Salome was nearing the Scudder 
house, with but one feeling, it seemed, ruling her — the feel- 
ing that spurred her on to annihilate space. Her feet were 
so heavy, they dragged so upon the highway, or she thought 
they did, that her hot brain grew hotter and wilder with 
every moment that passed. 

When she opened the door leading into the Scudder 
kitchen she saw only Mr. Scudder, asleep on the lounge. 
She could dimly discern his figure by the light that came 
from the next room. 

She stepped within and leaned against the wall. 

“ Is that you, Nely ?” asked Mrs. Scudder’s voice. 

There was no answer. Just now Salome was literally 
unable to speak. 

The question was repeated, and then Mrs. Scudder rose 
from the chair where she was sitting near Moore’s bed and 
came forward. She had been wishing that she had not let 
Nely go out, and was beginning to be anxious about her. 


AT THE SCUDDERS’ 


83 


Nely was such an excitable child ; Mrs. Scudder in her se- 
cret heart was rather proud of the fact that Nely was ex- 
citable ; it made her so different from her father and moth- 
er; but the mother often mentioned this excitability in a 
deprecating way to the neighbors. 

Mrs. Scudder’s large, plump face was worn and anxious 
now as it appeared in the open doorway with the light be- 
hind it. She thought it was trying of Nely'not to answer 
her. She peered forward, at first not being able to see any- 
thing. Then her voice rang sharply. 

“Nely!” 

She was frightened. 

“ It isn’t Nely,” said Salome. But she could not yet step 
forward. Now that she had reached the house there was a 
sudden weight upon her. She remained leaning against the 
wall. She had let her shawl slip from her, and it lay in a 
heap at her feet. She had worn no hat. 

Mrs. Scudder could not recognize the voice. Bewildered, 
she stepped back and took the light from the stand, return- 
ing to the kitchen with it. 

“ It ain’t S’lome !” she exclaimed. 

Her slow, placid mind had great difficulty in even the at- 
tempt to adjust itself. Things were happening at such a 
rate that it was quite useless to try to understand them. 
And in all her life things had never happened before. 

The girl at the door had made no response. Salome’s 
entire powers were at work to bring to her the strength to 
walk into that room where Mrs. Scudder had been sitting. 
She knew directly that Moore must be in that room. 

In another moment she advanced a step. It did not 
seem necessary or worth while to make any reply to Mrs. 
Scudder. Indeed, she was hardly aware that the woman 
had spoken. 

The girl extended her hand to push Mrs. Scudder from 
the doorway, which she almost filled. 

“ Oh, land 1” cried the other, “ you mustn’t go in there, 
S’lome ! He’s a stranger ; I’ll tell you about it. It’s awful 


84 


OUT OF STEP 


curious, ’n’ ’tain’t much we know. But where do you s’pose 
Nely is? I’m real worried. You ’ain’t seen her, have you ?” 

Salome thrust Mrs. Scudder gently aside. 

“ I’ve seen Nely,” she answered. She was looking at the 
still form on the bed. 

“ Oh, you have ? There ’ain’t nothin’ happened to her, 
then ?” 

“ No.” 

Salome advanced and sat down in the chair Mrs. Scudder 
had been sitting in. She leaned forward with her arms rest- 
ing on the bedside, her eyes upon Moore’s unresponsive 
face. 

Mrs. Scudder had kept the lamp in her hand. She now 
stood with it raised somewhat, so that its light was shed 
upon the girl sitting there. She was looking at Salome. 

In a moment she stepped forward softly and set the lamp 
upon* the stand. Then she walked noiselessly from the 
room and sank into a chair in the darkened kitchen. 

Tears were rolling down the woman’s face. There was a 
strange pang in her heart. 

She had never seen upon any face the look that was upon 
Salome’s. For a brief time the sight of it took from her all 
bewilderment and curiosity. At first she could not ask her- 
self how Salome had known this man was here, or how she 
had known him. 

As Mrs. Scudder was trying to get her handkerchief 
from some obscure fold in her gown, and as in the endeavor 
the tears ceased to flow, she heard footsteps outside. She 
was conscious of a fleeting sense of impatience with her 
husband that he could continue to snore when she was the 
subject of so much emotion. 

She gave up trying to find her pocket and her handker- 
chief, and went to the door, admitting Nely and Mrs. Gerry. 

“ I do declare !” cried Mrs. Scudder, helplessly, going 
back to her seat without thinking whether this new visitor 
would be seated. “ It does seem ’s if my mind was goin’,” 
she continued. 


AT THE SCUDDERS’ 


8s 

Mrs. Gerry’s face and figure seemed strangely composed 
as she also walked across the kitchen to the room her 
daughter had just entered. She carefully avoided glancing 
at Salome. 

Mrs. Gerry had reached that age when she knew posi- 
tively that she could not, with outward calmness, bear some 
things. And she knew now that she could not bear to see 
Salome’s face. 

She walked to the bedside, and for a moment bent over 
the bed. Then she went back and joined Mrs. Scudder. 

“ Do you know what has happened to him ?” she asked. 
Her tone was calm ; it was pitched too high, however. 

Before Mrs. Scudder had done more than shake her head, 
Mrs. Gerry went on : “ Nely told me all she knew as we 

were coming ; but I thought you might have learned some- 
thing more.” 

Mrs. Scudder shook her head again. Now she remarked 
that she s’posed this young man must be a friend. 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Gerry, promptly, and with an appearance 
of explaining everything. “ We knew him in Florida. He 
was very kind^ to us. I thought a great deal of him. He 
had come out here to call on us. It’s dreadful.” 

“ It’s jest as dretful ’s it can be,” responded Mrs. Scud- 
der, “ ’n’ I’m all upset with it. The doctor he’s gone to 
telegraph round. He’s goin’ to telegraph to the girl he’s 
engaged to. I s’pose she’ll be cornin’ out here. I do hope 
we sh’ll have strength to go through with it. I d’ know 
whether he’ll live or die. Dr. Sands said ’twan’t no use to 
give no medicine. He said might ’s well give medicine to a 
dead woodchuck. You know his way. I don’t like that 
kind of a way in a doctor myself; but some folks think 
there ain’t nobody like Dr. Sands.” 

Mrs. Scudder had a recurrence of a desire to reach her 
handkerchief. She was not in a teary state now, but she 
felt frustrated, and she could not tell how soon the tears 
might come again. She stood up and brought her skirt 
round with a violent movement, absolutely found the pocket 


86 


OUT OF STEP 


this time, and abstracted from it a piece of white cloth with 
a wide pink border. 

“ I’m sure I wish I could be as ca’m ’s you are, Mis’ 
Gerry,” she said, with some reproach in her tone. “ I did 
think I was likely to be ’s ca’m'’s ’most anybody, but my 
nerves are all kind of shook up, somehow.” 

Mrs. Gerry did not reply. She was standing so that she 
could see her daughter’s figure with its head drooped for- 
ward towards the bed. With a revulsion of feeling, she now 
felt she must be where she could see Salome. 

Mrs. Scudder’s curiosity began to rise above her real 
sympathy and kindness. She thought that there were a 
good many things that she did not understand, and it 
seemed that she had a right to understand, since her family 
had been distinguished by finding that man lying insensible 
by the road-side. She didn’t see how she could have her 
house turned into a hospital and everything going wrong, 
and she not able to make butter at her usual time, and 
likely ’s not having to do without pies for days at a time — she 
didn’t see how she could endure all this and not know the 
very ins and outs of the acquaintance of the Gerrys with 
that young man ; and he engaged to another young woman 
who called him “ My dearest,” and who signed herself “ Al- 
ways your Portia.” 

And it was perfectly plain that Salome loved him. 

Mrs. Scudder’s sluggish heart almost thrilled at this won- 
derful complication ; it also swelled somewhat with pride at 
th§ conviction which now suddenly came to her that her 
Nely must have known something; her Nely must have 
been able to keep a secret. 

Nely, with skirts heavily wet up to her knees, was sitting 
in a chair and leaning her head against the wall. At first 
she had placed herself where she could see Salome as she 
sat by the bed in the next room. But immediately there 
came over her a sense that it was something like sacrilege 
for her to watch Salome. 

She wondered how her mother could talk. She won- 


AT THE SCUDDERS’ 87 

dered how her father could lie there and sleep. To her the 
whole air was electrical. 

Mrs. Gerry, standing upright, not thinking of sifting, her 
eyes on Salome’s drooped head, was aware that some one 
was touching her. 

She turned enough to see her hostess standing close to 
her. Mrs. Scudder nodded towards the girl sitting by the bed. 

“ Does she know he’s engaged ?” she whispered, loudly. 

There was no reply and no movement from Mrs. Gerry. 

“ I seen a letter,” went on Mrs. Scudder, quite carried 
away by the romantic interest of her subject, ^and by the 
possibilities and complications of it. “ The doctor took it 
out of his pocket. There ’tis on the stand by the lamp. I 
jest looked at it. You know the doctor had to find out 
something’ bout him, so ’s to telegraph round. Oh, my !” 
here Mrs. Scudder’s prominent eyes bulged out still more. 
“ It’s a reg’lar love-letter ! I didn’t know there was such 
love-letters only in novels. I hope Nely won’t see it. I 
s’pose some folks take such notions as that ’bout love. 
It was put together real pretty ’n’ interestin’, too ; ’twas 
real bright in some places. The doctor he’s sent for that 
woman.” 

Here there was a very slight movement on Mrs. Gerry’s 
part. 

“ I s’pose you know all about that woman ?” 

“ I saw her in Florida.” 

Mrs. Gerry’s effort in speaking was so visible that Nely, 
who at first had paid no attention to the two women, now 
sprang from her seat and pulled her mother’s skirt. 

“ Do stop, mother !” she exclaimed. 

Here Mrs. Gerry, who was really unable to stand any 
longer, turned to the nearest chair. She was thinking that 
she had believed Mrs. Scudder to be very kind-hearted; 
now she had a savage wish to do an injury to a woman who 
could torture in that way. 

“ Go ’n’ change your clo’es this minute !” exclaimed Mrs. 
Scudder to Nely. “You’ll git your death er cold !” 


88 


OUT OF STEP 


The speaker was provoked that she had been interrupted. 
The agitations of the evening were having the appearance 
of putting the easy-going nature out of temper. Mrs. Scud- 
der was seriously tried with Mrs. Gerry. She confided to 
her husband later that she didn’t' know that Mis’ Gerry was 
so kind of unfeelin’ ; but Mis’ Gerry was always one of 
them ca’m kind. 

The time crept on until it was midnight. As the clock 
struck, Mrs. Scudder, who had been dozing in her rocker, 
having suddenly desisted from any attempt to talk with 
Mrs. Gerry, rose and declared that she heard wheels. 

Then Mrs. Gerry, who had not been dozing, answered 
that she guessed it was the wind in the chimney. Mrs. 
Scudder, now extremely irritable, resented this remark, and 
responded that she guessed she knew what was wind and 
what was wheels. Then she put her head back on the 
chair, and immediately went to sleep again. 

Mrs. Gerry had drawn her chair near the door of the bed- 
room. For the last hour she had been virtually alone with 
her daughter, for Nely had at last gone up -stairs, over- 
powered, in spite of all, by the sleep that comes to healthy 
youth. 

It was chilly now in these rooms. The sultry night had 
changed. The wind was blowing from the north, and the 
sky was clear and steel-blue. The insects of the summer 
night were silent, save that now and then a braver, stronger 
little creature gave a small, shrill pipe. 

Mrs. Gerry sat there. Sometimes a rebellious question- 
ing as to why this had come to her child rose in her mind. 
But she felt that such questioning was wicked. It had 
come. Should she ask why God did anything? Surely 
God was trying her daughter. Once she prayed fiercely 
that God might try her, torture her, if He would only spare 
Salome. 

But immediately she suppressed that prayer. She must, 
rather, plead that God would’ enable Salome to bear her 
troubles in a way that would be for her eternal good. 


AT THE SCUDDERS’ 


89 


Eternal good. That phrase took its place in the woman’s 
thoughts. She must cling to that. It was all there was. 
If she could only bring Salome to think of it also. Salome 
was so keenly, so passionately alive to the present. 

Once, overborne by her anxiety, Mrs. Gerry went to her 
daughter, who was still sitting with her arms resting on the 
side of the bed where Moore lay. 

“ Salome,” whispered the mother. 

The girl said “Yes,” without moving from her position. 

“ Can’t you let God help you ?” At this question Salome 
looked up at her mother. 

“ I’m not thinking about God,” she answered. 

“ But now, when you are suffering so — ” said Mrs. Gerry. 

Salome turned back towards the bed. 

“ I am thinking of my love.” 

She extended her hand and touched with the tips of her 
fingers the lock of hair on Moore’s forehead. 

“ God is nothing to me,” she said. 

Mrs. Gerry shuddered. She stood an instant close to the 
girl, her eyes strained as they gazed at her, her lips pressed 
closely together. Then she walked silently away and sat 
down in her old place. 

God would not send suffering unless for some good pur- 
pose. God sometimes purified by fire. 

Such sentences Mrs. Gerry repeated to herself, struggling 
in a dumb agony to make the words alive with a comforting 
meaning, rather than mere dead husks with no life in them. 

Sometimes as she sat there'her eyes rested on that square, 
flat, white object upon the stand. That was Portia Nunal- 
ly’s letter to her lover. And her lover was the man whom 
Salome loved. Whether he lived or died, Salome must 
suffer. And Salome could suffer so much. And she was 
not one who would submit, and be reconciled, and perhaps 
consoled. 

There was the sound of wheels at last. It was three 
o’clock. That must be Dr. Sands coming with the man 
he had sent for. 


90 


OUT OF STEP 


By this time Mrs. Scudder in her chair was as soundly 
sleeping as her husband was upon his lounge. Neither of 
them stirred. 

Mrs. Gerry went to the door and opened it. In spite of 
all her strength of nerve she perceptibly shrank back when 
Miss Nunally stepped within the room. 

Miss Nunally was very pale, and her lips were very red. 
There was a burning spark deep in each eye, and a subtle 
intensity in her whole aspect which made her presence inde- 
scribably effective to the plain Puritan woman who looked 
at her. 


VI 


THE ONE he’s ENGAGED TO 

Miss Nunally stood for the space of an instant where 
she had entered, with the outer door open, and the deep 
dusk of the early morning showing over the sky behind her. 
Mrs. Gerry was aware of a dull surprise that she should 
notice how clear the stars shone. 

Portia had been holding a warm mantle about her shoul- 
ders, her bare, ringed hand closely grasping it. Now she 
dropped the mantle. She extended her hand, mechanically. 

Mrs. Gerry felt a disinclination to touch the hand, re- 
proving herself meanwhile that she should have that feeling. 

“ Isn’t this the place ?” asked the girl. “ He is here ?” 

Mrs. Gerry framed an inaudible “ Yes ” upon her lips, 
and drew back a little. 

Portia looked about her. Her gaze remained fixed upon 
the open bedroom door. Every line of her figure showed 
how tense she was. 

“ The telegram said : ‘ Badly hurt ; come to Dwight 
Scudder’s.’ I did not lose any time. Is he — ” 

She was plainly unable to go on. 

Mrs. Gerry pushed a chair towards the new-comer, who 
sat down in it. But she rose immediately. The tenseness 
seemed relaxing, and a tremor was taking its place. She 
made two or three aimless steps about the room. It was 
strange, Mrs. Gerry thought, that even now all Miss Nu- 
nally’s movements were characterized by her old indepen- 
dent grace of motion. 

The girl came close to the woman, and took hold of her 
arm. 




92 


OUT OF STEP 


“ Is he alive ?” she whispered. 

Mrs. Gerry nodded. 

“ Then let me go to him. He is in there ?” looking tow- 
ards the open door. 

The mother was thinking of her daughter. She was try- 
ing to arrange some way in which to shield her, although 
she knew perfectly how useless was such an attempt. She 
moved gently between her companion and the door. 

“ He will not know you,” she said. “ Don’t go.” 

“ Not know me ?” with a slight emphasis on the last word. 
Then her face lighted as she continued, “ Yes, he will know 
me. Because I love him so well he must know me.” 

Mrs. Gerry shrank somewhat as she heard these words 
and the tone in which they were spoken. At that moment 
she knew that she had not before given Portia Nunally 
credit for a certain capability. 

When she had been told that Portia was engaged to 
Moore, she had thought that for some reason it suited Por- 
tia to be engaged to that, young man. Portia was quite 
accustomed to engagements — not that Moore was not one 
who might easily be loved. 

But from this moment Mrs. Gerry’s attitude of mind 
towards Miss Nunally underwent a change — a change quite 
as likely to be wrong as the attitude she had known before. 
But Mrs. Gerry could not be aware of that fact. She could 
not, from the very nature of things, have any true concep- 
tion of a nature like Miss Nunally ’s. 

Portia pressed gently forward until Mrs. Gerry had 
stepped aside. Why should she uselessly try to keep those 
two girls apart ? 

Portia paused abruptly when she was where she could 
look into the room. She saw Moore lying there, and Sa- 
lome sitting by him. Salome was leaning forward as she 
had been doing, but her head was now bowed on the arms 
which rested on the bed. 

A crimson so deep that it was almost purple rose up to 
Portia’s brow, and then she became very pale. The spark 


THE ONE he’s ENGAGED TO 


93 


in her eyes grew more intense ; her short upper lip, which 
so often had a scornful aspect, was now drawn down sharp- 
ly, giving her whole face a look so foreign to it that it al- 
most seemed another face. 

After that instant’s abrupt pause she walked into the 
room and up to the foot of the bed. She placed her hands 
on the foot-board, but lightly placed them there, as if she 
were resolved to sustain herself upright unaided, whatever 
the strain upon her. 

She looked for a long, absorbed moment at Moore’s face 
as it lay so peacefully on the pillow. She drew her breath in 
sharply, her countenance still retaining that drawn expression. 

Has it ever been stated of this woman that she knew, 
better than most, the value of an emotion ? She knew 
when to give way to it. 

She remained standing there after she had ceased look- 
ing at Moore. But she was now gazing at Salome, who 
was not yet conscious of this presence which had arrived 
almost noiselessly. 

Miss Nunally’s face changed from all softness- to that 
peculiar hard, steel-like appearance which a blond face can 
take on so much more strongly than any other. 

But her movements were as gentle as possible as she 
walked found to the girl by the bed and bent over her. 

Salome started up quickly, glanced at Portia, braced 
herself to stand quietly, and then said, in a low voice : 

“ So you have come.” 

It was a very strange thing which happened then. 

The instant that Portia’s eyes rested on Salome’s face 
every particle of that hard look, that something like tiger- 
ish combativeness, vanished. 

“ Oh !” murmured Portia, and the two girls gazed at 
each other intently. 

It was at this time that Mrs. Scudder, perhaps moved by 
a sense of the happening of more unusual things, stirred 
uneasily in her chair, and then rose, not really awake, but 
in an awakening state. 


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She gazed hazily at Mrs. Gerry. Then, hearing Mr. 
Scudder snoring on the lounge, she remarked that men 
always would sleep through everything. For her part, she 
wished that she was made up so, but — 

At this point she interrupted herself to ask : 

“ Has he come to 

“ No.” 

Mrs. Scudder rubbed her eyes. 

“ I d’ know but we better try mustard ag'in on the back 
of his neck,” she said. 

Mrs. Gerry made no response to this. She felt that she 
could not spare any of her strength for useless conversa- 
tions with any one. 

Mrs. Scudder advanced to the clock and scrutinized it. 

“ Mercy sake !” she cried. “ It’s past three. I d’ know 
but I mustliave lost myself.” She glanced at Mrs. Gerry. 
“ P’raps,” she went on, “ if I mix a teaspoonful of cayenne 
with the mustard it ’ll bring him to. It does seem ’s if we 
ought to be doin’ something. Was he subject to any kind of 
spells, Mrs. Gerry,when you knew him in Floridy ? Dr. Sands 
ain’t above mistakes more ’n the rest of us. Mebby it’s a 
spell he’s got. You remember old Major Lucas that lived in 
the aidge of the Dillon neighborhood, don’t you. Mis’ Gerry?” 

Mrs. Gerry sat down. She acknowledged that she re- 
membered Major Lucas. 

“ You rec’lect them spells he uset to have ? He’d lay for 
hours ’thout knowin’ nothin’, ’n’ then he’d come to ’n’ go to 
work ’s if nothin’ ’d happened. Dr. Sands don’t always 
know. I s’pose he’s jest like other doctors, ’n’ wants to 
cut somebody open. He wants to cut that young man’s 
head open. He’s sent for that Boston man. I always did 
go ag’inst operations. I guess I’ll try the mustard ’n’ cay- 
enne. You look i;eal tired. Mis’ Gerry, Why don't you 
lop right down in this chair ’n’ shet your eyes jest a minute ? 
I’m goin’ to make a cup of green tea. If there's goin’ to 
be an operation here green tea won’t be none too strong to 
brace me up.” 


THE ONE he’s ENGAGED TO 


95 

As Mrs. Scudder finished her remarks she walked to the 
door of the bedroom. 

She uttered an exclamation, and then put her hand over 
her mouth as if to keep back a stream of cries of astonish- 
ment that were ready to burst forth at sight of the stranger 
there. 

After a moment she turned towards Mrs. Gerry, bending 
over her and whispering hoarsely, “ Is she the girl he’s en- 
gaged to ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I declare ! I must have lost myself, or I sh’d have heard 
her come. Ain’t it interestin’ ? Be they both in love with 
him ?” 

As there was no reply to this question, Mrs. Scudder re- 
peated that it was the most interestin’ thing she’d ever heard 
of. It was more interestin’ than when LyddyMann and 
Silas Loring had been married jest as Silas was breathin’ 
his last breath in consumption. Lyddy had made the pret- 
tiest widow that had ever been seen in the North meetin’- 
house. 

Mrs. Gerry drew a long breath as the sound of wheels 
was now unmistakably heard down the road. The wheels 
were, as Mrs. Scudder said, “jest tearin’ along the road,” 
and they came into the yard. 

Dr. Sands entered quickly. He was followed by another 
man, whose movements were so deliberate by contrast that 
they appeared slow. Dr. Sands walked directly into the 
bedroom, making an instant’s pause as he saw the two girls 
standing by the bed. He knew Salome. The other must 
be that one to whom he had wired. He was directly inter- 
ested in her. But why the deuce was Salome Gerry there ? 
Had she come with her mother ? Women were always send- 
ing for each other. 

He nodded at Salome. He said respectfully to Portia, 
“I suppose you are Miss Nunally?” 

Salome walked away and went and stood by her mother. 
It was plainly not she who had any right as belonging to 


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Moore. Miss Nunally only bowed her assent to the doc- 
tor’s question. Then she asked, “ May we hope ? Tell me 
the truth quickly — quickly.” 

As the man answered, he was saying to himself that he 
was devilish sorry for that young fellow. A girl like this 
now — 

Aloud he said that nothing could be told yet. Still he 
believed that there was much reason to hope — but the 
brain had been injured. 

Here he was interrupted by Portia, who said, eagerly : 

“He must have the best skill — the best. Pardon me, 
but you know that is absolutely imperative.” 

“ Certainly ; I have sent for the best. There is no man 
in the country who stands higher in this branch of the pro- 
fession than Dr. Jennings.” 

He looked at the other doctor, who had come into the 
little room and was standing with his hands behind him, 
his eyes upon the figure on the bed. 

Dr. Jennings bowed absently. Then he glanced at Por- 
tia, withdrew his eyes, glanced again, then said that if the 
ladies would now kindly withdraw, except the one in a black 
gown whom he had just seen in the other room — He did 
not appear to think it necessary to finish his sentence. 

The woman in the black gown, of course, was Mrs. 
Gerry. 

When this selection of the doctor from Boston was made 
known to Mrs. Scudder she had a feeling of resentment, 
which, however, she quickly smothered. She did allow 
herself to say that if she hadn’t been as ready as could be to 
make mustard plasters, she shouldn’t have thought strange 
of what that Boston doctor had said. And she guessed 
they’d better go up-stairs, them that wa’n’t wanted. She’d 
be ready to tell Mis’ Gerry where everything was if they 
wanted anything. She had some green salve that was con- 
sidered the very best — 

“ Mother,” said an imperative young voice from the stair- 
way. 


THE ONE he’s ENGAGED TO 


97 

When Nely called her mother in that manner Mrs. Scud- 
der did not delay in her response. 

It was early daylight now. Mr. Scudder had risen has- 
tily from the lounge, and had at first manifested some shame- 
faced signs of remorse at having so undeniably slept. He 
went to the barn, after having made inquiries and professed 
his readiness to do anything he could do. 

Now the farm-house seemed to bear upon its very roof- 
shingles signs that some strange thing was going on within 
its quiet walls. 

Mrs. Gerry noiselessly obeyed the requests of the sur- 
geon. Once Dr. Jennings said that he was sorry ther6 was 
no hospital nearer. 

It was almost the only remark he made, save to give his 
brief orders to Mrs. Gerry or to Dr, Sands. 

The woman stood unflinchingly by as Moore’s inert length 
was put upon a long, raised board. Her hand was steady, 
her face sternly attentive. She obeyed as an intelligent 
soldier obeys, instantly and without visible questioning. 
But all the time she was possessed by one thought ; so pos- 
sessed by it that she even reproved herself for a sort of un- 
feeling quality, because she could only think of her daugh- 
ter as waiting up-stairs. Was it strange that this mother 
should think that Salome ought not to suffer so ? That it 
was worse for Salome to suffer than for another? Would 
any one have called this woman cold as she saw the gleam- 
ing shears clip away still more closely Moore’s hair, as she 
watched the seemingly deliberate but really rapid move- 
ments as the skin was made “ surgically clean ” ; as she 
held the basin ; as she saw the appalling shining of strange 
instruments? Perhaps to do this does require a certain 
hardness, but it is a hardness which is worth far more than 
all that soft susceptibility which is often so captivating — a 
hardness which the world can ill spare, and which might 
almost be called the backbone, the real stamina of genuine 
tenderness. 

The Boston surgeon spoke rarely. His words seemed to 

7 


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drop from his mouth ; sometimes these words were mere 
technical terms addressed to Dr. Sands, or a common 
phrase of instruction to Mrs. Gerry. 

Gradually, and to her own great surprise, the woman be- 
came deeply interested in watching the operation ; in not- 
ing the wonderful skill and deftness which never made a 
false movement; where the hands followed an apparently 
unerring judgment with unswerving accuracy. For a space 
she even forgot Moore as Moore, and viewed him as “a 
case.” 

She saw the bones of the skull lifted, and her eyes rested 
on that mysterious matter wherein she had been told that 
thought dwelt, or where it came, or — here Mrs. Gerry’s usu- 
ally clear mind suddenly clouded over in the wondering and 
the questioning that came to her. She felt that she knew 
nothing. But how much more did this man of marvellous 
skill know ? She was sure that he stopped short at materi- 
alism. She could not tell why she jumped at that conclu- 
sion. Yes, this man with the deep eyes that probed into 
the very mysteries and holies of life must be hedged in by 
materialism. Death, disintegration, ended all for him. 

Never before had Mrs. Gerry felt such a rebellion, such 
a struggle for solid ground whereon to rest her feet with 
utter firmness. She was frightened at the glimpse of what 
to her was a godless chaos. But the mood passed almost 
immediately. The habitual thought and belief of years, 
and, above all, the strong tendency towards faith with which 
she was born, and which she had systematically cherished 
all her life, came directly to her aid. 

She believed. That was the old phrase which now stamped 
itself anew upon her brain. 

When the strain was over and the two doctors, with Mr. 
Scudder’s help, had placed Moore on the bed again, Mrs. 
Gerry walked quickly out of doors. 

She longed to be under the sky; to see the high pastures 
with their gray rocks. Somehow those rocks always com- 
forted her. They always looked the same, and they were 


THE ONE he’s engaged TO 


99 

hers, hers by the right of years of love and acquaint- 
ance. 

She went down behind the barn where no one could see 
her. But first she returned to the house to put on her 
“ rubbers ” and to wrap a shawl about her, for the wind was 
still blowing clearly from the north. 

The huge, blackened barn sheltered her from observation 
from the house or road. 

She walked over the short, wet grass, holding up her 
skirts carefully, and yet not knowing that she did so. She 
was murmuring words of prayer, her eyes fixed on the past- 
ure rising towards the north. 

She was praying for Salome. After every few words of 
intense petition she would feel that she ought, perhaps, to 
reprove herself for almost seeming to dictate in what way 
the Lord should bless her child. 

“ But only if it seems best to Thee !” 

After a few moments she stopped her walk and leaned 
her arms on the fence. She was beginning to feel a deadly 
weariness. She fought it off, however. 

What if Moore should die ? That would be the simplest 
answer to the questions of the situation. At this moment 
Mrs. Gerry could not help thinking that for any young per- 
son to die w'as glorious gain. It was to be taken from the 
unsolvable perplexities of the world. If Salome should die 
her mother was sure that in time she should feel more and 
more a thankfulness that at last the child was safe. God 
would judge leniently as to the tendencies His own hand 
had placed in Salome’s soul. And here again Mrs. Gerry 
started away from the path of thought she was entering. 
She had times of fearing that her very tenderness of judg- 
ment towards her daughter might be a sort of wrong tow- 
ards others. She often recalled the case of a young man 
who had been condemned for murder, who even confessed 
his crime. His mother had clung to him with a piteous 
strength. She told every one that her boy was different; 
she knew her boy better than anybody else could know him. 


lOO 


OUT OF STEP 


She supposed her boy had done that deed, “ since he said 
he done it ” ; but it was different ; it was not so bad as oth- 
er murders. She went mad, explaining and justifying, and 
believing in her boy’s real tenderness. She never stopped 
explaining until her poor crazed brain ceased to think. 

“ She did know him better,” was Mrs. Gerry’s thought now. 
“And in just that way must God know all of us better.” 

Then she shrank back again from that thought which 
might lead to a lax judgment. People must be judged ac- 
cording to their deeds. That was all the way there was to 
judge them. 

“ I must be very tired,” at length said Mrs. Gerry, speak- 
ing aloud. “ If I could sleep twelve hours, things would 
look different to me.” 

She lifted herself from her heavy leaning against that top 
rail of the fence. She gathered up her skirts again. 

As she turned to go towards the house Miss Nunally came 
round the end of the barn. She had no shawl wrapped 
about her, and no overshoes on her feet. She looked so 
wretched and so old that Mrs. Gerry, preoccupied as she 
was, noticed her appearance. But the woman was afraid 
that she hated her just now. And yet the something there 
was in Portia’s personal presence instantly asserted itself. 

Portia paused at the other side of the fence. 

“ I beg your pardon,” she said, in an indifferent voice. 
“ I could not bear it in the house. And now,” looking 
about her, “ I cannot bear it here.” 

“ We have to bear things,” said Mrs. Gerry in her most 
prim manner. 

“ Do we ?” 

Portia’s eyes, singularly faded in this morning light, 
looked vacantly at her companion. 

“Yes, we do. We all have dreadful things to bear. I 
don’t suppose a man or woman ever lived who did not have 
some dreadful thing to bear some time in his life.” 

“Very likely,” was the response. “But I don’t know 
that that is any comfort.” 


THE ONE he’s ENGAGED TO 


lOI 


Silence on Mrs. Gerry’s part. She hesitated, and then 
she was about to turn away. 

“You need not go to the house on account of Salome,” 
said Portia. “ She is asleep. She is as soundly asleep as 
if she were only ten years old.” 

Mrs. Gerry looked incredulous. Portia went on. 

“ I haven’t yet suffered quite enough to sleep, though 
that is one of the blessings I used to command at will. I 
think I am losing my blessings.” 

Miss Nunally now turned away and sat down on a stone, 
which had tumbled from the wall that began at the bars. 

“ You ought to have put on rubbers,” said Mrs. Gerry. 

No reply. 

“ And a shawl,” added Mrs. Gerry. 

Portia made an impatient movement with one shoulder. 

“ I think nature is insulting,” she said. “ Look at that 
sky ! I suppose God is laughing at us behind that sky ; 
that is, if there is a God.” 

“ Miss Nunally !” 

“ Mrs. Gerry ?” 

“ You are very wicked.” 

“ I am very miserable.” 

After a slight hesitation Mrs. Gerry let down a rail of the 
bars and crawled through the aperture. She took off her 
shawl and put it over the girl sitting there. 

“The wind is so cold,” she said. 

She was going up towards the house when Portia’s voice 
made her pause. 

“ I know about Salome,” she said, incisively. 

“ About Salome ?” 

“ Yes ; she told me what she had done. I’m not con- 
demning her.” 

Mrs. Gerry stood without motion awaiting what else 
should be said. 

“I wanted to tell you that suffering doesn’t make me 
good. And I am suffering. Oh yes,” with a slight, un- 
controllable movement, “ I am suffering. You need not 


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trouble yourself to try to answer me. Only you will ‘ make 
"'allowances’ — that’s what you call it, isn’t it? — if I’m not 
particularly good. I don’t care a bit about being good. I 
never did. I don’t care a bit about anything — only for 
that man who is in the house tliere, and who cannot care 
for anybody now. I care for him.” 

As she talked a defiant animation had come to her as- 
pect. Her eyes were no longer faded. Her face changed 
so much when she said “ I care for him ” that Mrs. Gerry 
thought it must be impossible for Moore not to respond^ — 
and he was engaged to her. That was enough for Mrs. 
Gerry ; only she felt that she could never reckon on what 
Salome would do under any circumstances. 

Miss Nunally rose* She wrapped the shawl closely about 
her and began walking aimlessly over the wet grass. 

“ It’s a very foolish thing to love when love brings unhap- 
piness,” she said. “ I have never meant to love save for 
happiness. Don’t you think that’s an excellent rule, Mrs. 
Gerry? But I see you don’t. You are one of the rigid 
kind. I’m talking because I have sat in the house there 
silent until I was ready to do any dreadful thing. It hurts 
to talk, but one likes to be hurt. One likes to cry, ‘ Oh, 
how much I can suffer!’ Mrs. Gerry,” suddenly advancing 
upon the woman who had walked a few yards to the shelter 
of the barn that the wind might not chill her, “ Mrs. Gerry, 
what did the doctors say to you?” 

Mrs. Gerry tried to reply promptly. 

“ They spoke about Mr. Moore’s youth. They told how 
great a percentage recovered.” 

“ A percentage ! The brutes !” She walked again, and 
then stopped in front of Mrs. Gerry. “ I asked them, and 
they gave me some words — I don’t know what they were. 
Here, take your shawl. I am going on up into the pasture, 
and I am not cold. I have a fire in my heart. And Salome 
is asleep.” 

Portia laughed a little as she made this last statement. 

Mrs. Gerry watched the girl as she went away towards 


THE ONE HE S ENGAGED TO 


103 

the upland field, springing forward as if there were super- 
abounding, defiant life still in her frame. 

But in truth Portia walked so in order that she might 
carry out in her physical appearance the fierce resentment 
that was in her soul. 

Mrs. Gerry went back to the house. She found Mrs. 
Scudfier going about the kitchen in large cloth shoes that 
she might make no noise. She told Mrs. Gerry that both 
doctors were still in the bedroom. She said that the Boston 
man was going to send oUt two trained nurses ; “ nusses ” 
was the term she used. She also said that if trained nusses 
was as partic’lar about their victuals as she had heard they 
was, she should try to bear it, but she s’posed it would come 
some hard. And she had been goin’ to have company. 
And did them nusses wear uniforms? She had been told 
that they did. 

Mrs. Gerry did not know. Mrs. Scudder was evidently 
very much excited. Her mild, prominent blue eyes were so 
prominent now that it was painful to look at them. She 
was pale, and a slight tendency towards hanging down in 
the underlip was now much increased. 

Nely was cooking some bacon in a frying-pan on the 
stove. She often looked at her mother in a way that 
showed that she felt acutely that that underlip ought not to 
hang in that way. She said now that she had no doubt 
that trained nurses were exactly like other people, and she 
hoped that they did wear a uniform ; she hoped it was red ; 
she hoped it was plaid; she hoped they had short hair, and 
that they knew all the ways there were to give people medi- 
cine. She was glad, for her part, that there were at least 
two coming ; she would like it better if there were three. 
But she hated that long young man in there. 

“ Nely !” said her mother, in a hoarse whisper of disap- 
proval, “ he’s dretful sick.” 

“ Oh, I know that,” still more recklessly, lifting up a piece 
of bacon on her fork and slapping it down in the bubbling 
fat so that the cat, sitting close to her, received a drop of 


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the scalding stuff ; “ I know that well enough, but I hate 
him all the same. I don’t love a person just because he’s 
sick or well. And that girl that’s engaged to him that’s 
come here; where’s she going to stay, I should like to 
know ? — that girl with that kind of an upper lip ready to 
curl at anything — that girl who says eyether and nyether — 
where’s she going to stay ?” 

Nely, with her cheeks burning, faced round with a knife 
and fork held belligerently. 

“ I told Nely she mustn’t git excited,” apologetically re- 
marked Mrs. Scudder, who was trying to set the table for a 
meal that was neither breakfast nor supper ; “ ’n’ I told her 
we’d got to ask that young lady to breakfast, if ’tis break- 
fast, ’n’ them doctors, too. It jest happens that we ain’t 
got nothin’ in the house to speak of. I was goin’ to cook 
up a lot to-day for company ’t we was expectin’ to-morrer. 
I’ve got to git word to ’em some way.” 

Mrs. Scudder, notwithstanding her general appearance of 
mild calmness, was one who could become very much flus- 
tered ; and she knew extremely little when she was flustered. 
Her husband had been known to say that he’d ruther have 
an earthquake any time than to have mar git flustered. But 
then Mr. Scudder had had no experience of earthquakes. 
He could not tell but that they might be even more discom- 
posing than was his wife when she was disturbed. 

Mrs. Gerry went noiselessly up the stairs. In the little 
south chamber she found Salome lying on the bed. She 
was still sleeping. Flung upon a chair were Miss Nunally’s 
wrap and hat. The window was open, and the branches of an 
old cherry-tree brushed against the screen. Mrs. Gerry stood 
a moment to look at the girl, then she went away as silently 
as she had come. In youth nature stands ready to assert 
itself like a beneficent power. The mother was sure that 
Salome had not slept soundly for many a day and night, 
but now the time had come. 

Mrs. Gerry went back to the kitchen. Nely had put the 
frying-pan on the back of the stove to keep warm while she 


THE ONE he’s ENGAGED TO I05 

tried to set the table. Her mother hovered over her mean- 
while, her lip drooping more and more. 

Mrs. Scudder looked at Mrs. Gerry as she said pointedly 
that she didn’t know, she was sure, how many plates they 
needed, and she was nearly positive there wa’n’t bread 
enough to go ’round. She had meant to make biscuit, but 
somehow she couldn’t seem to git at it. She had took up 
the creamy-tartar, ’n’ had put it down somewhere, ’n’ now 
she couldn't find it. She pumped a pailful of water, and 
then turned it into the sink. 

“Mother,” said Nely, “I wish you’d go to bed; I wish 
you’d go and sit in the parlor; I wish you’d keep out of 
this kitchen ; and I don’t care a cent if there ain’t bread 
enough to go ’round. There are potatoes enough, anyway, 
and crackers. I don’t want anything but crackers and 
coffee ; and I’ll have a cup of coffee strong enough to take 
my head off.” 

Mrs. Scudder smiled in feeble admiration. She glanced 
at Mrs. Gerry, who was rearranging the plates on the table 
and bringing dishes from the pantry. 

“ I’d know what I should do ’thout Nely,” she exclaimed. 
“ But I wish I could make out how many there is to break- 
fast. We ain’t got nothin’ fit. If I could find the creamy- 
tartar — ” 

“ Mother,” cried Nely, pausing to look round, after having 
brought the platter for the bacon, “ will you go out of this 
kitchen ? You know you’re flustered.” 

“Well, I know I be,” was the response. Mrs. Scudder 
did not leave the room, but she sat down and vaguely 
watched her daughter and Mrs. Gerry as they finished the 
preparations for the meal. 

It was the Boston doctor who came to join them, leaving 
Dr. Sands with the patient. Nely quite hated him, because, 
after chopping any one up, as she said to herself, he could par- 
take so heartily of bacon and potatoes, and coffee and milk. 

While they were all still at the table Miss Nunally ap- 
peared in the doorway, having just returned from the past- 


io6 


OUT OF STEP 


ure. Nely had put a plate and a chair for this unwelcome 
guest, but she would not be gracious enough to make any 
sign now. 

Dr. Jennings rose and stepped to the vacant chair, taking 
it from the table and motioning to the girl in the doorway. 
She advanced, although her countenance showed no sign 
that she had seen his command. 

“Drink milk,” he said. He took the pitcher of milk, 
poured her a glass, and stood near until she had raised it to 
her lips. 

Perhaps he would have been amused if he had seen the 
ferocious glance Nely gave him. But he resumed his place 
and calmly went on with his repast. 

An hour later Dr. Jennings started to the station. He 
said that he knew just the nurses to send out. He would 
come himself within twenty -four hours. He gave some 
rnurmured advice to Dr. Sands as the two stood on the back 
piazza. Nely, washing dishes as noiselessly as she could 
at the sink near the open door, heard the Boston doctor say 
that it was a perfect case of — Here she lost the word. “ A 
good illustration of — ” Nely dropped a plate with a loud 
splash into the water. 

Those two men standing there with their hands in their 
pockets seemed like brutes to her. She was glad when only 
Dr. Sands was left, and her father was driving the other 
towards the station. 

Mrs. Scudder, a little steadied by colfee and a somewhat 
bountiful meal, was not quite so pendulous as to the under- 
lip, but she had not yet come out of her fluster. She had 
poured what there was left of the milk in the pitcher into a 
pan of bonny-clabber, and was now standing in the middle 
of the room bewailing this deed. 

Mr. Scudder’s last remark to his daughter before he had 
driven away had been to ask her if she couldn’t somehow 
work it so’s to git her mother to se’ down somewheres till 
she come out of her fluster. He said he didn’t want all the 
victuals in the house mixed up. Things were mixed enough 


THE ONE he’s ENGAGED TO 107 

there now, ’n’ he didn’t know how they sh’d come out when 
them misses come. There was one thing — Nely ’d have to 
leave school for a spell ; for what with a man with his skull 
cut open, ’n’ mar flustered, ’n’ trained nusses, he guessed 
their hands ’d be about full. 

Nely did succeed in inducing her mother to go into the 
dark, close parlor and lie down on the narrow horse-hair 
sofa. 

Mrs. Scudder submitted now to the guidance of the girl. 
She told Nely that if she could only keep on that sofa she 
could most always have a nap there. 

It turned out this morning that she could keep on it, 
though the couch certainly did not look as if she could do 
so. In five minutes she was asleep, and Nely and Mrs. 
Gerry, greatly relieved by her absence, “ did up the work ” 
rapidly and effectively. 

By noon it appeared that the news, in more or less dis- 
torted fashion, had spread over the neighborhood. Slow- 
going horses dragging hay carts or open wagons, wherein 
were men in more or less faded blue overalls, stopped oc- 
casionally in the road in front of the house. The men 
slowly climbed out of these vehicles and came around to the 
back door, looking solemnly all over the house as they came. 

It was Mrs. Gerry who met them. Each one had heard 
a different version; each one was agape with curiosity. 

Mrs. Gerry replied alike to them all. She said that Mr. 
Scudder had picked up a young man on his way to the vil- 
lage. The young man was unconscious. They didn’t know 
how badly he was hurt. Dr. Sands was there now. They 
were going to have two trained nurses. No, they didn’t 
know how he was hurt. They didn’t know whether he’d 
get well or not. 

“ But they say you was acquainted with him ?” 

“ Yes ; we knew him in Florida.” 

They all had to go away with this information, which was, 
in their eyes, no information at all. Some of them caught 
glimpses of Miss Nunally. 


io8 


OUT OF STEP 


“ Who was that strange gal ?” 

“ She was engaged to the young man. She had been sent 
for immediately.” 

“ Oh ! Kinder tough for her, ain’t it } Was she all ready 
to be married ?” 

Mrs. Gerry thought that it was true that Miss Nunally 
was all ready to be married. 

One man went so far as to ask particularly if Miss Nu- 
nally had got her wedding-dress. 

Mrs. Gerry did not know. He then informed her that his 
wife, having been told by a neighbor who had already called 
at the Scudders’ for information that a strange gal was 
there, had made him promise to find out if the wedding- 
gown had been made. 

Nely overheard these words. She paused behind Mrs. 
Gerry and looked over that woman’s shoulder at the man 
who was asking for this information. There was a malicious 
spark in her eye as she said : “ There’s the girl now, Mr. 
Lincoln. You ask her. She can tell you. Then there’ll 
be no mistake about it.” 

The big, heavily moving farmer turned slowly about. His 
eyes almost became set in his head as they fixed themselves 
upon Portia Nunally advancing from the barn, where she 
had been in her restless movements about the place. 


VII 


TWO GIRLS 

“ I don’t care what she says to him,” said Nely, grinning 
as she watched Mr. Lincoln going ponderously towards 
Miss Nunally. “She’ll wither him all up, and it’ll do him 
a lot of good to be withered. I declare I must see some- 
thing going on besides doctors cutting people’s heads 
open.” 

Nely passed out into the open porch, and stood there 
leaning against a post. She could not withhold her ad- 
miration from Miss Nunally as the girl paused in response 
to a gesture made by Mr. Lincoln ; but Nely’s admiration 
was saturated with the quick and unreasoning hatred that 
comes so often to youth. 

She had instantly decided in her own mind that Miss 
Nunally had no right to be engaged to that young man in 
the bedroom. That young man belonged to Salome — that 
is, if Salome wanted him to belong to her. In the bottom 
of her heart Nely hoped that Salome did not want him. 
She felt sure that it would make matters simpler and easier 
in every way if Salome should scorn him. But, perhaps, he 
was going to die ; that solving of the affair would simplify 
things still more. Nely, in the great hardness of her young 
heart, thought it would be a good thing if that man died, 
and there was an end to it all in that way. Yes, he might 
far better die. What a curious thing it was that those two 
girls, Salome and Miss Nunally, were in love with him. Yes, 
they certainly were in love. How interesting they must be 
to themselves ! Nely’s mind at this point suddenly flashed 
off to the conclusion that Miss Nunally, should Moore die, 


no 


OUT OF STEP 


would be chief mourner, since Miss Nunally was the one to 
whom Dr. Sands had telegraphed. 

Portia was now standing before Mr. Lincoln and looking 
at him. He was dully aware tliat he had never before seen 
a woman in the least like this. There was something about 
her that made his small eyes brighten as he gazed. And 
some dim sense of her insolence stung him somewhat. But 
it was interesting to see her. Of course she must be a Bad 
woman somehow, for Matthew Lincoln had been instructed 
for the last thirty years by his wife that it was bad women 
who were by far the most likely to be interesting. Mr. 
Lincoln was positively sure, by the light of this bringing 
up, that his wife was not a bad woman, since she was not 
in the least interesting. 

“ I hope you’re ’s well ’s could be expected,” at last re- 
marked the man. He had had a kind of hope that his 
companion would speak first, and thus open the way to a 
conversation ; but he was greatly mistaken in this hope. 

“ Thank you,” said Portia. She did not go away, as she 
might have done. She stood there easily, looking at the 
man. She was beginning to be conscious of a slight de- 
gree of thankfulness for any kind of a diversion. She was 
tired of that horrible dead level of suffering. She was not 
fitted to suffer. She had no doubt that some people were 
fitted to suffer. She wondered calmly what made this 
man’s face so purple, since it was a cool day, and why did 
his left eyelid twitch so before he spoke. She should think 
his wife would go mad with seeing that dreadful twitch 
every day of her life. 

Mr. Lincoln was now divided between two emotions : a 
regret that he had addressed this girl, and a desire to con- 
tinue to stand there and gaze at her. 

“ I understand,” he began. Here he had a strong wish 
that he had taken his whip with him when he left his 
cart. The feel of his whip in his right hand was an ac- 
customed and much needed stimulant to his mental facul- 
ties. He was also thinking that probably there were “ lots 


TWO GIRLS 


III 


of gals jest like this one all round in the thick settled 
places.” 

“I understand,” he began again, “that the man that’s 
ben hurt — cause unknown ” — this phrase spoken somewhat 
proudly — “ was your beau.” 

“I beg your pardon,” said Portia. 

That word “beau” always made her ill, she had once 
told Salome. It was a word calculated to produce a disas- 
trous effect upon her whenever she heard it. 

Mr. Lincoln did not know why she begged his pardon, 
but he laboriously repeated that he»had understood that the 
man who had been hurt — cause unknown — was her beau. 
He gained courage, with this repetition, to make an addition 
to his remarks. He said his wife was prevented by rheu- 
matism from coming over with him. He interpolated the 
explanation that the rheumatics had been greatly aggravated 
by her going “ out in the popple swamp to pick dangle-ber- 
ries.” 

“ Oh,” said Portia. 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Lincoln, with his eyes what the old 
novels used* to call “ glued ” to the girl’s face, “ popple 
swamps is no place for old women with rheumatics.” 

Mr. Lincoln sometimes, when sufficiently removed from 
his wife’s presence, greatly enjoyed speaking of her as an 
old woman. 

He now had a fast-growing sense that he was giving him- 
self up to what seemed to him a violent admiration of 
Miss Nunally’s complexion. All the “women folks” whom 
he habitually saw had freckles or moth-patches on their 
faces, He thought that there could not be a woman whose 
face was not freckled. But here was one whose skin was — 
Mr. Lincoln staggered mentally when he came to try to find 
a comparison. 

And to look at Portia Nunallygave the hulking, elderly, 
bovine creature standing near her an almost exhilarating 
sense of dissipation, He could not understand it. But then 
it was a long time now since Mr. Lincoln had tried to un- 


II2 


OUT OF STEP 


derstand anything ; and he seemed to remember that when 
he had formerly tried he had never succeeded. 

He was wondering now what he had been saying. Again 
he wished that he had his whip m his right hand. 

Oh, he was saying something about his wife’s rheumatics. 
But there did not seem to be anything more to add on that 
subject. He did not know but that he ought to go out to 
his cart now. If he only had his whip ! 

He did not wish to go home without finding out some- 
thing about that wedding-dress. So much hung on that, in 
Mrs. Lincoln’s mind. 

“ It must be dretful hard to bear,” he now remarked. 

And again Portia said : 

“ I beg your pardon,” and again he repeated his words. 

His face grew more purple, and his eyelid twitched more 
markedly than before. 

“ I mean to have your beau hurt so sudden — cause un- 
known.” 

“ Yes,” said Portia. 

The girl was finding an enjoyment in the embarrassment 
of the man before her. She was wishing cruelly that she 
might make some one suffer. It is often true that to suffer 
one’s self is strangely an incentive towards causing suffering. 
But she was beginning to weary of this creature. He was 
too stupid. At first, as a type, she thought that he might 
amuse her. But nothing could amuse her any more. 

What a mistake she had made in allowing herself to love 
so deeply ! To love, save in some fleeting abandonment of 
ardor, was surely to be wretched. There was always in lov- 
ing the reverse side, the side of wretchedness. The reverse 
side was what she had intended to avoid ; and she had 
hitherto succeeded very well in this intention. But some- 
how now she found herself plunged into an intolerable 
misery. She was too epicurean in taste and temperament 
to be able to bear this. When she had reached this stage 
in her confused thoughts a rush of tenderness for her lover 
came over her, and she yielded herself up to it. 


TWO GIRLS 


Meanwhile her face, excellently schooled when she willed, 
showed only that easy control which is so near the verge 
of insolence. 

“ My wife,” began Mr. Lincoln, who was now seized 
with a fear that the girl would leave him before he had 
found out what he must find out, “ she is quite a hand for 
clo’es.” 

“ Quite a hand for clothes ?” said Portia, slightly amused. 

“ Yes. She wanted to know, bein’ such a hand for clo’es, 
whether you’d got your weddin’-dress. They couldn’t tell 
me to the house here,” jerking his head towards the build- 
ing behind him. 

“ They couldn’t tell you at the house ?” asked Portia, with 
a gentle solicitude of manner. 

“ No,” replied her companion, “ they didn’t know. ’N’ 
my wife she said the last thing ’fore I left that she hoped 
I’d find out ’bout the weddin’-dress. She’s known two or 
three gals that had beaus ’n’ expected to be married, ’n’ the 
day was set, ’n’ something happened. One of the fellers 
was killed blarstin’ out rock. She felt so bad she couldn’t 
git over it. She was kinder pindlin’ any way ; ’n’ she died 
in jest three weeks ; ’n’ she was laid out in her weddin’- 
gown. She had as large a funeril ’s I ever remember to 
have attended. Folks, you see, was natchrally interested in 
her, ’n’ they come from over beyond the Far Corners. They 
had three ministers there, ’n’ the full choir of the church 
sung. ’Twas an’ affectin’ occasion.” 

Mr. Lincoln was so carried away with the memory of that 
funeral that for the moment he forgot to be. embarrassed. 

He was brought to himself, however, by the cool persist- 
ence of the gaze Portia fixed upon him. She began now to 
have a violent dislike towards him. His reference to that 
girl who had been laid out in her wedding-gown made her 
shudder with horror. She could never bear any reference 
to the dread paraphernalia of death. It made her angry 
and it made her afraid. 

Mr. Lincoln moved uneasily. He wished he could go 
8 


OUT OF STEP 


II4 

away now. There was his horse dragging the cart slowly 
about the yard in his search for grass. He wanted to make 
a rush for his horse, but, as he had never yet in his life 
made a rush for anything, it was manifestly impossible for 
him to begin now. He felt the blood come up to his head. 
That gaze made him have the feeling, in some unaccounta- 
ble way, as if he were being lashed and stung with a whip. 

Presently Portia turned and walked away. Mr. Lincoln 
stood just where she had left him for a moment. As soon 
as he could he went towards his horse, which had reached 
the clump of lilacs by the wood-house. 

At the lilacs he became aware that Nely had joined him. 
She said that she was afraid that the animal would trample 
on some hollyhocks growing there. 

Mr. Lincoln reached forward and got his whip in his 
hand. His face directly cleared somewhat. 

Nely was laughing. He thought resentfully that Nely 
was always a “ sassy gal.” She hadn’t been brought up 
right. He mounted his cart and braced his feet so that he 
could keep his balance. Then he bethought himself of the 
fact that he had not found out about the wedding -gown, 
and that he must go home and face his wife in his igno- 
rance. 

Mrs. Lincoln prided herself upon knowing particulars 
which eluded nearly every one else. When she had first 
heard that a stranger had been hurt ; that he was lying at 
Dwight Scudder’s, and that Dr. Sands had sent for the girl 
to whom the young man was engaged, her mind had imme- 
diately flown to the subject of the wedding-dress. It might 
possibly occur that another girl would be laid out in that 
garment. If it should happen in that way, Mrs. Lincoln 
knew that she should regret more than ever that she had 
made an untimely visit to the popple swamp, and thus ag- 
gravated her rheumatics. 

Mr. Lincoln backed his horse and then turned it, and then 
shouted, “ Whoa !” standing firmly on his feet all the time. 
But he was far from standing firmly on his mental footing. 


TWO GIRLS 


“ Nely,” he said, stooping over towards the girl and 
speaking in a sepulchral whisper, “ I do wish you could 
somehow git so’s to know if she,” a backward motion of 
his whip in the direction taken by Miss Nunally, “ has got 
her weddin’-gown.” 

Nely laughed openly. 

“Oh, I guess you’ll have to wait to know that,” she 
said. “ I wouldn’t ask her no more than I’d cut out my 
tongue.” 

Mr. Lincoln’s vast purple face showed his dejection and 
disappointment. He gathered the lines into a still firmer 
hold. 

“Wall,” he said, “mebby my wife ’ll be able to come 
over by to-morrer.” 

“ Oh, I hope she can come !” exclaimed Nely. “ Bring 
her over, and let her ask Miss Nunally. You had a good 
time asking Miss Nunally, didn’t you ?” 

But Mr. Lincoln did not reply. His eyes were fixed upon 
Miss Nunally,. who was walking about in the orchard. 

“ What is it ’bout that young feller’s knowin’ the Ger- 
rys ?” he asked. “ Ain’t things kind o’ mixed up ? I hope 
S’lome ain’t goin’ to be disappointed. I did hear some- 
thing said ’bout her havin’ been disappointed. There ain’t 
nothin’ to that story, is there ?” 

“Nothing,” said Nely, with decision. 

Mr. Lincoln was so much more clear in his mind since he 
had his whip in his hand that he was thinking of asking 
more questions, and was even ready, as he told himself, to 
“ tackle that other gal again.” 

Before he had decided what inquiry to make the screen 
door of the kitchen opened, and Mrs. Scudder came out 
with a great appearance of haste. Nely looked at her 
mother critically, that she might decide if there were still 
symptoms of fluster. 

“ I do wish,” said Mrs. Scudder, coming to the cart and 
taking hold of a wheel that she might lean on it — “I do 
wish you’d go over to the deepo for the evening train. Dr. 


OUT OF STEP 


Il6 

Sands says them nusses ’ll most likely come on that train, 
’n’ Dwight he’s gone with the Boston doctor, ’n’ he’s got 
an awful lot to do. It’ll be a great ’commydation if you’ll 
go.” 

“Nusses ?” repeated Mr. Lincoln. “ I didn’t know ’s you 
was goin’ to have ’urn. They had one over to Livingstone’s 
when his wife was sick. I ain’t no opinion of them — ’n’ 
they come so high, too.” 

“I’ve heard they were high,” responded Mrs. Scudder, 
“ but that ain’t our lookout. Will you go to the deepo, do 
you think ?” 

“ I’ll go, Mrs. Scudder,” said a voice behind the group. 
“I can get Mr. Norton’s horse and carriage.” 

It was Salome who spoke. They all turned and looked 
at her, Mr. Lincoln in a scrutinizing manner, for, as he was 
thinking, his wife would be sure to ask as to Salome’s ap- 
pearance. She would want to tell Mrs. Hill. To Mr. Lin- 
coln’s eyes Salome looked much the same as usual. 

“You can’t drive Mr. Norton’s horse more’n you can fly,” 
said Mrs. Scudder. 

“ Yes, I can,” was the quiet response. “ I have driven it 
several times. I’ll go for the nurses, Mr. Lincoln.” 

Nely saw her mother’s lip begin to droop, and she took 
her mother’s arm and unceremoniously walked her into the 
house. 

Salome did not linger by Mr. Lincoln’s cart, and that 
gentleman was obliged to drive out of the yard and go 
home to his wife with comparatively little positive in- 
formation, and in complete ignorance as regarded the wed- 
ding-gown. 

Salome walked out towards the orchard. Not until she 
entered it did she see that Miss Nunally was strolling in 
the shade there. Salome made an involuntary pause in her 
advance. She had wished to be alone. She had left even 
her mother. When she had first wakened from the deep 
sleep of exhaustion which had come to her with its inde- 
scribable blessing, Salome thought that she could bear 


TWO GIRLS 


II7 

whatever happened. But as the moments passed and con- 
sciousness and memory came clearly back, she wondered 
if her strength would be equal to all. But it must be 
equal. 

When she came down the stairs her mother met her in 
the “entry.” The face of the elder woman looked much 
the more worn as the two confronted each other. 

Salome leaned forward from the lower stair and put her 
arms about her mother’s neck. 

“ Mother,” she whispered, “if I had not sent that note to 
Mr. Moore he would not have come, and then he would not 
have been hurt.” 

“ Salome !” sharply. 

The girl raised her head in surprise. 

“ We needn’t trouble ourselves about such things,” said 
Mrs. Gerry. “ That is folly. You can’t see what will hap- 
pen because of the simplest action. We are not responsible 
in that way.” 

“ Well,” returned Salome, “ we needn’t talk about it. 
There is only one thing sure in this world.” 

“ And what’s that ?” 

“ Suffering.” 

“Oh,” cried the mother, “you are too young to know 
that.” 

Salome smiled as if she were the elder. But she said 
nothing more. She walked out-of-doors, and, hearing the 
proposition of Mr. Lincoln to go to the station, she an- 
nounced that she would go. 

Salome had not gone many yards beneath the trees before 
Portia saw her. Instead of trying to avoid her Miss Nu- 
nally turned and came forward. As the two met, Portia 
said with some bitterness : 

“ You have slept ?” 

“ There comes a time when one must sleep or go mad,” 
was the answer, “ and since I have slept I shall not go mad.” 

“ But I — I have lost that trick of sleeping at will. Have 
you stolen it from me, Salome Gerry ?” 


OUT OF STEP 


I l8 

Portia now spoke in a particularly soft tone. 

Without replying, Salome gazed at her for a long mo- 
ment; then she said: 

“ It is impossible that he should not love you — in time, 
if he does not love you now. Well,” with a deep breath, 
“ I hope I want him to be happy.” 

Some kind of a spasm crossed Portia’s face. She seized 
her companion’s hand, holding it tightly, and gazing in her 
turn at the face before her. Then she laughed in that su- 
perficial, mocking way which was sometimes so exasperating. 

“ What a situation !” she cried. “ Here we are, two 
women in love with that man there who may never live to 
love either of us. That thought makes you shudder. Per- 
haps we ought to wish him dead. That would solve it all. 
Then you and I could mourn him in peace. Don’t think 
I’m unfeeling — I wish I were. Then I should say that you 
were welcome to his love. But I can’t say it. I crave his 
love.” 

She paused, walked away, and then returned. 

“ Oh, I tell you this is intolerable !” she cried. “ He had 
come to see you, had he not 

“ Yes.” . 

“ You had sent for him .? You had changed your mind } 
I told you down there in Florida that you were criminally 
wicked if you told him anything. Now what have you done ? 
Kept silent, tormented him, then suddenly veered about 
and done this. In a few weeks more we should have been 
married. I hope your conscience is calm just now. Miss 
Gerry. Don’t speak until I am through — I have a lot to 
say, but I may not say it all now. You must have a very 
convenient conscience, or else not any. Turn your head 
this way, Salome Gerry !” imperiously putting a finger tip 
under Salome’s chin. “There; now tell me, did he still 
seem to love you ? If you speak a falsehood it will have no 
effect. Tell me !” 

“Why should I speak a falsehood now?” was the re- 
sponse. “Yes, he still seemed to love me.” 


TWO GIRLS 


19 


“Oh!” 

Portia’s hands dropped to her side. Her vivid face for 
an instant was thunderous. Then she laughed. 

“ I was sure of it. But, for all that, what he felt for me 
would pass very well for love. As long as I felt inclined I 
should have made him happy enough. But you stepped in 
and sent him a note. Then, of course, he wanted you. We 
always want the unattainable.” 

Salome, listening with a poignant sense of the unendura- 
ble upon her, heard plainly but one sentence — “ As long as 
I felt inclined I should have made him happy enough.” 

Replying to that, she exclaimed : 

“ Then you don’t really love him 1” 

“ Not really love him I How ignorant you are ! If your 
tooth aches to-day so that you want to kill yourself, and to- 
morrow is painless, do you say, therefore,, that you did not 
really have the toothache ?” 

Salome started up from her leaning position against the 
tree. 

“ This is really horrible !” she said, with, eager protest. 
“ How can you talk that way ? To love, and yet be able to 
think there will come a time when yon do not love I Oh, 
what is the use of living?” 

Salome was startled out of her preoccupation. 

“As to that, there’s ever so much use in living,” returned 
Miss Nunally. “ Sometimes you know a moment of intense, 
unadulterated happiness. If you live quite a good many 
years you may know several such moments. The rest of 
the time, you know, you exist. I’m not sure if we are, on 
the whole, quite equal to the animals. You are not listen- 
ing to a word I say, Salome. Well, it makes but little dif- 
ference. I am talking because when I talk I cannot quite 
so strongly realize how I suffer. The worst of it is that if 
you can be very happy, that very capacity makes it positive 
that you will be very miserable ; and in this world there is 
so much more variety of arrangements for producing mis- 
ery than for producing happiness. Salome,” with a quick. 


120 


OUT OF STEP 


harsh tone in her voice, “ if Mr. Moore gets well, what shall 
you do ?” 

The girl thus addressed did not immediately reply. She 
was looking fixedly at her companion, but plainly was not 
seeing her. 

“ Answer me,” said Portia ; “ what shall you do ?” 

Salome shrank somewhat as she said : 

“ I am afraid I was not listening. I was thinking.” 

“ Thinking — of what ?” 

“ Of those lines — are they Mrs. Browning’s ? — 

“Those never loved who say ‘loved once.’” 

Miss Nunally smiled, but her forehead contracted at the 
same time. 

“Very likely they are Mrs. Browning’s. And there’s not 
a word of truth in them. Poets like to say such things ; 
and people like to pretend to believe them.” 

“ I believe them,” said Salome, firmly. 

“ Do you ? Then you are very ignorant. But you have 
not yet told me what you will do if Mr. Moore gets well. 
That Boston man informed me that he had a chance of re- 
covery. What shall you do ?” 

Salome passed her hands over her face before she re- 
plied. She was now so pale that Portia had an impulse to 
put her arm about her ; but she resisted that impulse. 

“ Do ?” said Salome. “Nothing.” 

Miss Nunally scrutinized her companion in silence a mo- 
ment ; then she said, with the harsh note very prominent 
now in her voice : 

“You are quite different from me, then.” 

“ Am I ?” dully. 

“ Yes. In your place I should break up the engagement 
and have my lover back again.” 

“ Should you ?” 

“ Certainly. Miss Gerry, don’t you know that by good 
rights you and I ought to hate each other? I ought to 
poison you, or you ought to- poison me.” 


TWO GIRLS 


I2I 


Salome made an effort to say, “ But we shall not poison 
each other, I suppose ?” 

She looked around her as one might look for some way 
to escape. 

“ Oh no ; we shall not poison each other,” returned 
Portia, who had now lost her deliberate, careful utterance. 
“ And I don’t hate you. I haven’t an idea why I don’t 
hate you.” 

Salome looked as if she could not speak again. She 
stood a moment with her hands clasped tightly and hang- 
ing in front of her. Her face, in its delicacy, its intensity, 
had something smitingly piteous in it. 

“ I cannot stay with you any longer,” she said, “ I am 
confused.” 

She hurried farther down the slope of the orchard, while 
Portia went slowly back to the house, going, after a hesitat- 
ing pause in the kitchen, to the open bedroom door and 
looking in. 

Dr. Sands was sitting by the bed. He glanced up at the 
girl standing there. But Portia did not look at him ; she 
looked at the man lying on the bed. There was a change 
in Moore’s face, and he seemed to be sleeping profoundly. 

When Portia moved away she went directly up the stairs 
to the room where Salome had been resting. She carefully 
shut the door and sat on the bed. It is at such moments, 
if ever, that people are frank with themselves. Though 
perhaps we are never quite frank, even in our most secret 
thoughts, of ourselves. 

“ He is going to live. Yes, he is going to live,” she was 
thinking now, and for the first few moments she was con- 
scious only of an intoxicating thankfulness. Portia never 
held herself aloof from the power of any agreeable emotion ; 
and now she abandoned herself to this penetrating gratitude. 
She did not ask if she had reason for thinking that Moore 
would live. She was governed much by impressions and 
intuitions. Like many finely strung natures, she found 
that those intuitions rarely failed her. 


122 


OUT OF STEP 


Out in the orchard Salome had no intuitions and no 
impressions. She was just now in an exalted state of self- 
sacrifice and unimpeachable rectitude. Just now she was 
her mother’s daughter, and could walk in the narrow 
path of right. If Moore lived, of course she had only to 
avoid him and continue in her colorless life, “ which was 
not life at all.” But it was all there was of life left to her. 
Then she went over again all her reasonings and conclu- 
sions of the year that was just past. 

She returned to the house, meeting Mrs. Scudder in the 
yard. 

“ I was jest lookin’ for you, Salome,” she said. “ It’s 
gittin’ along in the afternoon, ’n’ it looks to me ’s if you 
ought to be startin’ over to Mr. Norton’s if you’re really 
goin’ for them nusses.” 

“ Mother,” called Nelyfrom the other side of the screen 
door, “ don’t you go hurrying Salome. It ain’t time yet. 
You ain’t got over being flustered yet. Come in.” 

Mrs. Scudder smiled proudly and obeyed her daughter, 
saying as she turned away that she didn’t know but she had 
been a grain too beforehand ; but still if the nusses come, 
they wouldn’t want to be waitin’ roun’ to no deepo. 

“Mother!” said Nely again. Salome felt an invincible 
repugnance towards going into the house and seeing any 
one. She wanted to be by herself, so that she might cher- 
ish the mood that now ruled her. She had by this time 
come to suspect that her resolutions were principally moods 
that passed. Nely met her at the door. 

“ Give me a jacket and hat,” said Salome. “ I’m going 
to Mr. Norton’s.” 

“ But there’s lots of time,” remonstrated the girl. 

“ I know it, but I must be out-of-doors. I must be out- 
of-doors I” with an emphasis that startled Nely. 

She brought the jacket and hat. Salome held them a 
moment in her hand. She was looking at Nely, who met 
her gaze for an instant, and then said : 

“ He seems to be asleep. He’s just the same.” 


TWO GIRLS 


23 


Salome turned away without a word and hastened down 
the road. She was thankful that it was a lonely country 
way. It stretched before her white and straight, the horse- 
brier and the milkweed and clethra growing close down to 
the wheel-tracks. The spikes of white clethra were now in 
full bloom, and they seemed to fill the air with their heavy 
perfume. Salome liked this flower, though most of the 
people said it “ smelled kind of sickish.” It was powerful 
and tropical. The girl gathered a handful of it, pressing 
the blooms up to her face. As she inhaled the odor and 
felt the touch of the petals a quick and complete revulsion 
of feeling came over her, sweeping away her previous moods 
as a great wave sweeps away the line of foam which a for- 
mer wave has left on the sand. 

Salome suddenly stood still in the solitary road, with the 
clear New England sunshine pouring upon her. 

“ This is my real self.” She did not speak those words. 
She only felt them. And with them came that other emo- 
tion that belonged to her real self. She loved. 

Now she walked on as if flying before something to which 
she must yield, but from which she yet fled, knowing all the 
time how useless was flight. 

The flowers hung tightly grasped in her hand. 

She was going now towards her home, for she must pass 
that on her way to Mr. Norton’s for the horse and carriage. 

As she came opposite the cottage at the Ledge some one 
came out of the yard quickly, not at first seeing her. 

It was Walter Redd ; and he had evidently been to the 
different doors seeking an entrance. 

As the two met, the young man held out his hand, saying 
that he had just given up trying to find some one. He was 
going by, and had called. He had hitched his horse the 
other side of that pine, by the road. Was she coming home ? 

No ; she was going to Mr. Norton’s to borrow his horse. 

“ I’m in luck this time, then,” said Redd, speaking a tri- 
fle more animatedly than usual. “ I’ve got my carry-all out 
here. If you want the use of a horse and carriage, let me 


124 


OUT OF STEP 


take you wherever you like. I’d say go without me, but my 
horse is too lively.” 

“ You are very kind, Walter,” began Salome. She did 
not know why she hesitated. 

“ Reward me for my kindness, then,” said Redd. The 
girl was vaguely aware that this was a strange way for Redd 
to talk. Such phrases were so foreign to him. 

“ I was going to the station,” she said ; “ perhaps it will 
not be convenient for you to go there.” 

“Yes, it will,” eagerly. 

He looked at his watch. “What train do you want to 
meet? The 6,30, I suppose. We have plenty of time. 
The drive will do you good. Salome, you look completely 
tired out. You look as if you had been through something 
dreadful.” 

They had been walking towards the carriage as she spoke. 
Since she had not immediately refused his offer, she found 
it impossible to refuse it now. And, indeed, there was no 
reason why she should not accept it. 

He helped her into the carriage, and then sat down be- 
side her. 

“ I’ve been taking my mother and sister over to the Far 
Corners,” he said, as he took up the reins. “ We made a 
very early start this morning. I’ve left them there for a 
visit, and I^^expect to bach it for the next two weeks. I 
shall be awfully lonesome. I wish you’d let me take you 
and your mother out to drive once in a while. It would 
do you both good.” 

Redd’s manner was not in the least heavy to-day, as it 
was usually. Salome was too much absorbed to notice this, 
however. 

She thanked him, and said that he was always so kind. 
Then the horse started forward, and she leaned back, hold- 
ing for a moment her bunch of clethra up to her face. 

After a short silence Redd turned to her and repeated 
his remark that she looked as if she had been through 
something dreadful. Had anything happened ? 


VIII 


“ HE KNEW YOU ?” 

Salome wished that her companion would not question 
her, but she knew that she must reply. Since he had been 
to the Far Corners he had not heard what nearly every one 
in the neighborhood by this time knew about that man 
whom Dwight Scudder had found. There was even a kind 
of attempt set on foot by the selectmen to inquire into the 
affair , but the selectmen, being slow-moving farmers, had 
all taken to the belief that the young man had had “some 
kind of a fit.” It was a comprehensive and comfortable 
way to account for the whole thing — “ some kind of a fit.” 
It was in this attack that the victim of the seizure had 
trampled on the bushes, and in the fall he had hit his head. 

Three gentlemen had gathered at the scene of the acci- 
dent, and had come to the conclusion that bushes would 
be trampled upon in just that kind of a way by a man in 
a fit. 

Nevertheless, to make things seem as they ought to seem 
in such cases, they had assumed a wise look, and had an- 
nounced that “ investigations was being made.” They dis- 
cussed the advisability of offering a reward, but, under the 
assumption that a fit was the cause of the misfortune, they 
hesitated about the reward, and thought that it would be 
better to wait. The young man might “come to.” 

“ So you haven’t heard ?” said Salome, after a perceptible 
hesitation. 

Redd turned fully towards her. 

“ Heard what ?” with the same unusual quickness of 
utterance. 


OUT OF STEP 


I 26 

“ That Mr. Moore was found insensible by the road-side 
near Clear Brook last night,” she said. 

“ Moore ? That fellow you used to know in Florida ?” 

“ Yes.” 

Redd was gazing at his horse’s head. Salome did not 
look at him. Her own eyes were fixed unseeingly forward. 

“ Then he came to see you, I suppose ?” 

Redd said this in his old heavy manner. Salome resented 
the remark, but she answered with the same monosyllable 
she had just used : 

“Yes.” 

Redd sat up more erect. He turned his glance now 
fully upon his companion. He was thinking that this was 
the first time he had really allowed himself to look at her 
since she had come home. He had seen her but a few times. 
He had been very rigid with himself. There were occasions 
when he thought that he would give up being so rigid. It 
really seemed to amount to nothing in the end. Here he was 
more in love with this girl than he had ever been before. 

Instead of following up his last question with one like it, 
Redd now inquired : S 

“ Is he dead 

“ No ; he is insensible.” 

“ Well, is he going to come out of it ? That’s what I 
want to know. Is he going to come out of it ?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

Salome was grasping the side of the seat. She was try- 
ing to be in some degree self-controlled. She had never 
known Walter to seem cruel before ; but she now felt a de- 
cided cruelty in his appearance and in his words. 

“ Well,” said Redd, in his most concentrated manner, 
“ whether he gets well or not, I’m free to say he must be 
the meanest kind of a skunk I ever heard of.” 

He pulled the whip violently from its socket and lashed 
it upon the horse. 

“Will you let me get out?” Salome’s eyes flashed as 
she turned them towards her companion. 


HE KNEW YOU ?” 


127 


“ No ; I’m going to take you to the station; and I’m go- 
ing to take the nurses to Scudder’s. I think you spoke of 
nurses. I suppose they are for that fellow.” 

Salome sat back on the seat. She was aware of a sudden 
access of physical strength great enough, it seemed to her, 
to throw Redd out of the carriage. Her pulses beat so in 
her temples that she “ saw crimson,” though why everything 
should look red she did not know. 

“Now you’re as. mad as you can be,” said Redd, whose 
loss of self-command appeared to be now as thorough as 
his habitual possession of it. 

After a moment Redd went on : “ There isn’t a great deal 
more time between here and the station, and I’m going to 
make the most of it. You ought to be kind of reasonable, 
Salome Gerry. You can’t expect me to love Moore, can 
you ? You can’t expect me to love a man who has be- 
haved as he has to you. You loved him, and he left you. I 
don’t want you to marry him, but, by God ! I do want you 
to be happy. I swear I want you to be happy even if you 
walk over me to find happiness. But to have a cuss of a 
fellow like that playing with you ! Coming back here now, 
when you might have settled down somehow without him. 
And he took me in, too !” 

Salome was shrinking away as far as possible from her 
companion. 

“ Will you stop ?” she asked, breathlessly, in the silence 
that followed Redd’s last remark. 

“No; I won’t stop. It ain’t often I get to talking, but 
when I do I’m apt to say all I want to say. There’s the 
station now. It ain’t time. I’m going a piece down this road.” 

He turned his horse. Then he glanced at Salome. 

“I know it’s mean,” he said, still unrelentingly, “but I’ve 
got to do it Now I have you where I can talk to you. I’ve 
got to keep you. Perhaps I’m making you hate me ?” 

As there was no response to this question. Redd re- 
peated it And again there was no response ; the man 
went on with intense bitterness in his tone : 


128 


OUT OF STEP 


“All right; IVe got to bear that, I suppose, as well as 
everything else. But I don’t know how you expect me to 
feel to a man who has treated you as Moore has. Why, I’d 
have sold my soul for half the love you gave to him ; and 
see how coolly he leaves you down South there !” 

Now Salome spoke. She had begun to feel a kind of 
pity with her indignation. 

“You are so mistaken,”* she said, “so entirely mistaken. 
Mr. Moore was not to blame. Can’t you believe me, 
Walter ? Can’t you believe me ?” 

“ No, I can’t !” violently. “ Do you expect me to believe 
such a thing as that? You want to shield him. But I 
know how you loved him. I ain’t likely to forget that !” 

Salome sat there in silent endurance. She hoped that 
this endurance would hold out. She wished that her tem- 
ples would not beat so. If those hammer-like pulses kept 
up she did not know what strange thing she might do. 

Everything, everything in the world was useless, too. If 
Moore lived he would marry Miss Nunally — that is, she 
supposed that he ought to marry her. She was quite sure 
that her mother would say that he ought to marry her. 
Some people had a prejudice in favor of keeping their 
word. 

It was really curious how many things one could think 
of, and what a strange light was on these things if one’s 
temples beat so. 

“ When I saw you at the house just now,” began Redd — 
“ when I saw you coming, I was fool enough to be so glad 
that I could think of nothing else but just that. I didn’t 
mean to talk like this. I didn’t. But a man can’t always 
do just as he wants to, so I’ve made you hate me worse 
than ever. I was going to be real gentle to you. You 
looked as if you’d been suffering, so I thought I couldn’t 
be gentle enough ; and this is the way it’s turned out.” 

Redd paused. They had come to another turn in the 
road. He pulled in his horse, which was now wet with 
sweat ; it stood panting. 


HE KNEW YOU?” 


129 


Redd looked at his watch. 

“ I’ll get you to the station in time ; you needn’t worry 
about that,” he said. 

With the lines in one hand he leaned his elbows on his 
knees and his face on his closed hands. 

Presently he said, without lifting his head : “ I ain’t got 
a very good temper, I expect. It ain’t quick, but when it 
gets up I’m kind of a devil, I suppose, and this has worn 
on me so, Salome,” now raising his head and looking at 
her. “ This has worn on me so ever since you told me that 
night before you went to Florida that you didn’t love me. 
I said to you then that I didn’t give up. I ain’t one of the 
kind that gives up.” 

Salome shuddered in silence. Redd carefully took a 
good hold of the reins. Then he looked at his watch 
again. 

“ I might ’s well tell you the whole,” he said. “ It won’t 
make matters any worse.” 

Yet, having spoken thus, Redd seemed to hesitate. Then 
he went on : 

“ I knew Moore was hurt. I struck him. But I didn’t 
suppose he was hurt much. He went down there among 
the bushes. I drove away. Do you hear me, Salome ?” 

“ I hear you.” 

“ I’ll tell you all there is to it. I saw him at a distance 
when he came into the town yesterday, before he saw you. 
I met your mother afterwards. I was beside myself. But 
I don’t bluster round much. I knew your mother was 
afraid about me. It was bad luck that Moore and I should 
run across each other late in the afternoon yesterday. He 
wasn’t calm, and I wasn’t, either. I expect I said some 
tough things to him. Anyway, he blazed up and struck me 
first. We had kind of a scuffle there in the bushes. Then 
I hit him. He dropped. I didn’t stay to find out anything. 
I didn’t care. I drove off home. Early this morning, as I 
told you, I took my folks to the Far Corners; and I’d just 
got back. I was stopping at your house. Now I’ll take 


130 


OUT OF STEP 


you to the station. There’s plenty of time. You can hate 
me all you want to.” 

Redd turned his horse, and in a few moments more they 
^ were at the station, which was a bit of a building set in the 
midst of an oak wood. 

There was nobody there save the agent, who stared at 
them with the interest he bestowed on every one. 

The instant the horse stopped Salome sprang out. She 
hurried away from the carriage to the edge of the platform. 
She stood there looking blindly down the straight track, 
which dwindled out of sight among the trees. 

Her only clear thought at that moment was the hope 
that Redd would not come near her. If he came near her 
now while the red was before her eyes and the beating was 
in her temples she might push him off on to the rails just 
as the engine came. 

She was sorry that the thought had come to her that she 
might push him off in front of the engine. She knew that 
she would not do such a thing — that is, she thought that 
she knew it. But she wished that dreadful beating would 
stop in her temples. 

There was a step behind and close to her. It was Redd. 
He was aware that he ought not to approach her, and yet 
he could not keep away. 

“ It’s time for the train,” he said, now speaking in his old 
slow manner. 

Salome turned. “ Don’t come near me !” she whispered. 

He moved back a few paces. He was thinking that it 
was a terrible thing to be drawn to any one as he was 
drawn to that girl. 

“ There’s the train,” he said. He had a sudden fear that 
she might step off upon the track. 

But she made no motion to do so. The train came 
slowing up. Salome stood back a little now and tried to 
look along the line of cars. She had come for something. 
Oh, she knew now why she had come. She went forward 
towards two women, girls they seemed to be, who had 


HE KNEW YOU ?” 


131 

alighted. They were the only people who had left the 
train. A trunk was swung down from the baggage -car, 
then the bell sounded and the train was gone. 

As Salome advanced to the strangers she was wondering 
if she would be able to greet them. To her surprise voice 
and words came directly. 

“Did Dr. Jennings send you?” she asked of the girl 
nearest her. “ Yes ; then you are the nurses. I have 
come for you. Here is the carriage. You will have to get 
the agent to bring the trunk to-iiight.” 

Having said so much with the utmost glibness and ap- 
propriateness, Salome was sure that she could not speak 
again. 

Redd stood at the carriage. He assisted the two strangers. 
Then he turned towards Salome. It seemed to her a child- 
ish thing to refuse his aid ; and yet she had never done a 
more difficult thing than to force herself to touch his hand. 

His somewhat saturnine face lighted in a pathetic man- 
ner. 

“ Oh, thank you !” he whispered, as he took his seat be- 
side her. “ You would forgive me if you knew how I suffer.” 

She turned towards him coldly. 

“ You need not thank me,” .she said. “ I shall never for- 
give you.” 

“Very well,” he answered. “ You will do as you please, 
now, as you have always done. But — ” 

Redd looked full at the girl. She was not afraid of him. 
She was thinking of paragraphs in the newspapers that told 
of men who had killed women who had rejected them. 
Perhaps Redd would kill her. That would not be so bad. 
That was cutting a knot which could not be untied. Only 
her mother would be sorry. 

In a few moments Salome turned in the seat and ad- 
dressed some remark to the strangers. She made a brave 
attempt to hear what was said in reply, but she could not 
make any sense ; their words rattled about in her ears like 
stones. 


132 


OUT OF STEP 


At the Scudder house the mistress of the family was re- 
covering from her fluster. 

As she often asserted, she was generally as “ calm as a 
clock,” but “ there was certain things that did upset her 
awful, and no mistake.” 

Mrs. Hill had come over to make inquiries, and to be 
there if possible when the “ nusses ” arrived. She felt that 
this was an occasion that must not be neglected; and she 
had left her “ table a-standin’ ” and had walked three miles, 
though she was obliged to use a cane on account of a long- 
continued “ sciatiky ” in her left leg. She had not made, 
under these circumstances, much more than a mile an hour. 
She had confidently reckoned upon having a lift from the 
butcher whose day it was to come over this road. He had, 
indeed, driven along, and she had turned about, leaning on 
her cane, and signalling imperatively to him to stop. But 
he had been apparently deeply engaged in assorting some- 
thing in the back of his wagon, and had been blind and deaf. 
She could not know that he was saying to himself that “he’d 
be darned if he’d take in that thunderin’ old Hill woman.” 

Mrs. Hill, whom Nely Scudder did not love, was now sit- 
ting in the kitchen. She had hobbled twice to the door of 
the bedroom and looked at Moore as he lay there. She 
had expressed it as her decided opinion that he would 
never come to. She had seen several persons layin’ like 
that, and not one of them had ever come to. 

“ And where was that gal that was engaged to him ? 
She’d heard that there was a gal that had come. She had 
seen Matthew Lincoln ’n’ he had told her ’bout that gal. 
She, Mrs. Hill, wanted to see her. She could tell in a 
minute what kind of a gal she was.” 

As Miss Nunally could not be produced at this moment, 
Mrs. Hill was obliged to wait before she saw that “ gal.” 
She employed the time by asking how it was that S’lome 
Gerry was mixed up with this affair. 

At this point in the conversation Nely, who was sweeping 
the kitchen, said : 


HE KNEW YOU?’ 


133 


“ Mother !” in such a warning tone that Mrs. Scudder, 
who had intended to reply very differently, said in the most 
general way that she found there was a good many things 
in this world that she couldn’t understand. 

“ Oh, land !” exclaimed Mrs. Hill, contemptuously. She 
felt that she had not come three miles with her sciatiky 
leg to be told any such stuff as that. 

She now remarked that she had thought for a good 
while that S’lome Gerry wasn’t exactly as she should be. 
’N’ she’d ben well brought up, too. There wa’n’t nothin’ 
aginst the Gerryses nor the Wareses. Had Mis’ Scudder 
heard ’bout one of them High School gals ’n’ S’lome ? 

No, Mrs. Scudder had not heard. Here Nely made a 
great racket with her broom among the- chairs. 

“’Twas Christiana Moody. She’d done something or 
other that was aginst the rules. Anyway, ’twas thought 
she had. ’N’ S’lom^, she knew it ; ’n’ when the master 
arst her ’bout it, instid of sayin’ Christiana done it, S’lome 
up ’n’ says she didn’t. ’N’ so the gal didn’t git punished, 
on account of S’lome’s tellin’ a lie. You see Chris told of 
it. She said she should never forgit it of S’lome in the 
world, she was so grateful. But I call it underminin’ the 
foundations of the world. ’N’ I hope S’lome’s mother 
won’t never hear of it. The Wareses was always truthful 
’s daylight.” 

Nely’s broom hit the chairs still more noisily. 

Mrs. Hill went on : 

“ I met Matthew Lincoln, ’s I told ye. He said S’lome 
was mixed up somehow, ’n’ he couldn’t find out how. I 
told him I guessed mebby I could find out. Anyway, 
I’d try. There’s Nely now ; I’ll bet she knows, don’t ye, 
Nely? You’ve been kind of thick with S’lome. Is this 
feller a beau of S’lome’s ? I’ve always said that something 
or other happened to her down South. Nely, you know, 
don’t ye ?” 

Nely rested on her broom ^nd looked at her questioner. 
Mrs. Scudder anxiously watched her daughter. 


134 


OUT OF STEP 


“ Now don’t you go to lyin’, Nely,” said Mrs. Hill, with a 
significant emphasis on the pronoun. 

The girl tossed her head. She said that she had been 
brought up not to lie, and she wasn’t going to begin now. 
Then she went on sweeping, flourishing her broom and 
raising so much dust that Mrs. Hill began to cough con- 
vulsively. 

“ Nely !” said Mrs. Scudder. 

“You told me to sweep,” said Nely, “and I’ve got to 
sweep. If folks get choked with the dust I don’t know ’s 
I’m to blame.” 

Mrs. Scudder shook her head entreatingly. Mrs. Hill, 
emerging from her handkerchief, stopped coughing long 
enough to say that she had borne some things, and she 
^’posed she could bear others. And what kind of an opera- 
tion had they performed on that young man } Matthew 
Lincoln said that they had cut his head open and taken 
out some of his brains. For her part — 

It was at this stage in the lady’s remarks that Miss Nu- 
nally came down-stairs and entered the room. 

Nely stopped sweeping immediately. Although she had 
begun upon a consistent course of hatred towards Miss 
Nunally, she was very glad to see her now. 

Mrs. Scudder performed a painstaking introduction be- 
tween the woman who had, impelled by curiosity, walked 
three miles on a sciatiky leg and the imperious-looking girl 
who had just stepped within the kitchen. 

Portia walked forward and sat down near Mrs. Hill. 
There was a good deal of combativeness in Portia. She 
now scented a battle. She leaned back in her chair and 
looked at Mrs. Hill ; and as she looked she hated, as Nely 
hated, this sleek human being. Mrs. Hill was not so dull 
but that she also scented battle. But she was very curi- 
ous. Her eyes travelled eagerly over every detail of Por- 
tia’s dress ; they dwelt upon the rings on her hands ; then 
her glance came up to Portia’s face and encountered the 
girl’s eyes. These eyes sometimes had something like a 


“he knew you?” 135 

paralyzing effect, they could be so cold and so contemptu- 
ous. 

To the surprise of the other three women it was Portia 
who began to question. 

“ Did you walk ?” she asked. Mrs. Hill was so surprised 
that she blushed. Her face always looked as if it had just 
been vigorously washed in soapsuds. Indeed, it was Nely’s 
often-asserted belief that Mrs. Hill used all the softsoap she 
annually made upon her own countenance. 

At first she did not seem inclined to reply. Therefore 
Portia repeated her question, her enunciation even more 
careful than usual, and she prided herself upon never, un- 
der any circumstances, chewing her words. 

“ Ee-us ; I walked,” now replied Mrs. Hill. 

“ And you are lame ?” glancing at the cane which its 
owner usually had very much in evidence. 

“ Ee-us ; I’m lame. Got sciatiky. The doctors can’t 
do—” 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon ; I wasn’t asking you about the 
doctors,” said Miss Nunally, in such a way that for the first 
time since she had seen her Nely questioned as to whether 
she should continue to hate her or not. 

Mrs. Hill visibly writhed in her chair. “ How far away 
do you live?” asked Miss Nunally. 

“ Three^mild.” 

Portia lifted her upper lip in her most infuriating way. 

“ Three miles !” she said. “ How curious you must have 
been, Mrs. Hill ! Have you found out anything that pays 
you for coming all that way on that leg that the doctors 
can’t do anything for ?” 

A silence, during which Portia, leaning comfortably back 
in her chair, gazed at the woman before her. 

“ Have you ?” she repeated; 

“ I — I’m sure I d’ know,” was the answer, pronounced with 
some difficulty. 

“ Ask me,” said Portia, smiling. “ I’m an excellent per- 
son to ask. I’m engaged to that young man who is ill. 


OUT OF STEP 


136 

We were to have been married next Tuesday at half-past 
seven. I shall marry him as soon as he is well enough. 
There was a gentleman here a while ago — Mr. Lincoln. He 
came to inquire about the wedding-gown. I didn’t tell him. 
I’m not going to tell you. Does your sciatica ever keep 
you from asking questions ?” 

Another silence. When Portia had waited again, she 
asked : 

“ Does it ?” 

In the silence that also followed this repetition there was 
distinctly heard an ill-suppressed giggle from Nely. Nely’s 
mother was so absorbed in the scene that she forgot to make 
any sign of disapproval. 

“ Mr. Lincoln,” now went on Portia, “ was so good as to 
mention one or two cases where girls had been laid out in 
their wedding-gowns. I gathered that he rather wished 
that I might be laid out in mine. But I don’t mind telling 
you, Mrs. Hill, that under no imaginable circumstances 
shall I be laid out in my wedding-gown. Is there anything 
more you’d like to know? Nely,” turning to that person, 
“ is there anything more you think that Mrs. Hill would like 
to know ?” 

As Nely was utterly incapable of speaking at this mo- 
ment, Portia turned leisurely back to the guest. 

“ I guess I better be goin’,” said Mrs. Hill, in a muffled 
voice. She found strength to add : “ I left my table a-stand- 
in’.” 

Portia sprang up. 

“ Let me help you,” she said, solicitously. 

Mrs. Hill grasped a chairback and her cane. 

“ Don’t you tech me !” she said. 

Portia laughed. She said she was sorry that the sciatica 
was so serious. She should think that walks would be bad 
for it. Was she really going ? Good-morning. She was 
so glad it had happened so that they two could meet. Could 
not Mrs. Hill come again while she. Miss Nunally, was at 
Mr. Scudder’s ? 


HE KNEW YOU?” 


137 


Mrs. Hill hobbled painfully, yet hurriedly, to the door. 
She went out without turning towards her hostess. 

Portia gently closed the screen door behind the retreat- 
ing guest. 

“ Really,” she said, “ I hope there are more of them. Al- 
ready there are two, a man and a woman. They keep me 
from yielding ; they are excellent tonics. But to see them 
often — Mrs. Scudder, how do you bear it ?” 

Mrs. Scudder felt it incumbent upon her to rouse and 
declare, as she had more than once said to Nely, that Mrs. 
Hill was a real good woman. 

She was frightened at what Miss Nunally had done. 

“ Oh, a good woman, is she ?” said Portia. 

“ Yes, she is. She is constant to meet’n’, ’n’ — ” 

“Mother,” said Nely, with the relentless candor of youth, 
“ she ain’t a good woman, neither ; not if she went to meet’n’ 
every hour of her life. She’s a prying, gossiping old wretch 
— that’s what she is.” 

“ How her ‘ sciatiky ’ leg will ache before she gets home !” 
remarked Portia. 

Having said this. Miss Nunally sat down wearily. A look 
of deadly fatigue dropped like a veil over her face. Her 
eyes grew dull and almost colorless. 

She sat thus for a few moments, and Nely furtively 
watched her. She was thinking that that girl was in love, 
too, and she was going to marry that man if he got well. 
Then what would become of Salome ? 

Mrs. Gerry had gone to a neighbor’s to procure some- 
thing for the household. At this distance from stores peo- 
ple were often obliged to borrow of one another. 

Dr. Sands had gone away for an hour or two, leaving 
the instruction that there was nothing to do ; that he would 
be back before there was any chance of anything to do. 

Mr. Scudder had long since returned from driving Dr. 
Jennings to the station, and he was now down in the meadow 
trying to get the hay into cocks before it was absolutely 
night. 


138 


OUT OF STEP 


Portia walked into the bedroom and sat down by the bed. 

Mrs. Scudder was in and out, keeping faithful watch. 
She was still tempted to try mustard paste on the back of 
Moore’s neck. It seemed to her that mustard paste faith- 
fully used would bring “ most anything to.” 

She went to the door, but turned away as she saw Miss 
Nunally sitting there. 

Portia was not one of those who seem appropriately 
placed in a sick-room. Still, if she undertook to do any- 
thing there she did it deftly, because she did everything 
deftly. But she had no vocation, as she would have said, 
towards nursing. In fact, as she was accustomed to declare, 
she had no vocation towards anything save the spending of 
money. Her aunt had heretofore provided her with this 
vocation ; but even Mrs. Darrah was wearying of this. She 
said her niece was really too independent for a dependent 
person. Whereupon Portia had responded that she was 
never going to cultivate humility, not if she starved, and 
when the girl broke the engagement with the rich and infat- 
uated Englishman, Mrs. Darrah had said that, for her part, 
she was going to live a short time without her niece, that 
her niece might try her life with her parents for a while. 

So it happened that Portia had for some months been 
living with her father and mother at the small sea- coast 
city on the North Shore of Massachusetts. Life there had 
been exceedingly limited, and she had not contributed at 
all to the happiness of her parents. In fact, as she would 
have frankly "acknowledged, she had “led them a life.” 
She was too fastidious to be poor; and she secretly de- 
spised her father and mother because poverty did not make 
them unhappy. Not that they were very poor ; they were, 
as Portia said, “ comfortably off.” She asserted that it was a 
dreadful thing to be comfortably off, for then there seemed 
to be no incentive towards anything more. 

“ My father is sure of his bread and his cigars,” she used 
to say, scornfully, “ and my mother is sure that my father 
is sure of them ; so they keep on living like that.” 


HE KNEW YOU ?’ 


39 


Nely went to the bedroom door and glanced in. She 
knew that Miss Nunally was there, and she wanted to look 
at her. She felt that she was growing bewitched to watch 
Miss Nunally. 

Portia sat far back in the large chair with her eyes fixed 
upon Moore. She did not know that Nely was looking at 
her in hostile admiration. -She was thinking, with inex- 
pressible bitterness, that her life thus far had been a very 
poor thing indeed. What if she had known some moments 
of wild happiness such as natures like hers can experience ? 
Those moments were gone. Just now the girl felt as if 
everything was in the. past for her. There was nothing in 
the future. Moore did not love her as other men had loved 
her. Nevertheless — 

The girl sighed heavily. Her gaze, which had for a time 
been fixed blankly upon the white coverlid of the bed, now 
rose to Moore’s face. She leaned forward breathlessly and 
silently, for Moore was looking at her. 

At the very first she could not tell whether he knew' her 
or not. Almost immediately he closed his eyes again. Por- 
tia sat motionless. Already it had seemed to her that Moore 
had been unconscious a long time, that it was days since 
he had been hurt. 

She felt a sort of exultation that it was she who was sit- 
ting beside him, that it was not Salome upon whom his gaze 
first rested. 

It was difficult for her to be quiet •, but she knew 
that she must be quiet. When would he look at her 
again ? 

The operation must have been successful. But she was 
not quite sure whether he had known her or not. 

What if he should recover, but should not be himself ? 
Confused stories of such cases came to her mind. But she 
only dimly understood concerning the operation that had 
been performed. She did not care to understand such 
things. They were too horrifying. 

She remained leaning forward over the bed. Presently 


140 


OUT OF STEP 


she reached out her hand and laid it over his, which rested 
so inertly upon the cover. 

Immediately he opened his eyes again and she caught 
his glance in hers. 

But he seemed unable to make the exertion required to 
keep his eyelids raised. 

“ Randolph,” she said, softly. The eyelids quivered in 
response to the word, but they did not lift. 

Portia rose to her feet in uncontrollable excitement. 

Perhaps something ought to be done — and what? She 
was so helpless. 

She turned towards the door, and at the same moment 
she heard some one enter the kitchen. The footsteps came 
directly towards her and Dr. Sands appeared. She did not 
speak. She watched the man as he came to the foot of the 
bed and gazed at his patient. 

The doctor put his lips together as if he would whistle, 
and held them there without whistling. 

Moore was lying as he had been lying, and his eyes were 
now closed. But there was an indefinable change in his 
appearance. 

Portia rose and walked swiftly to the doctor. She clasped 
both hands about his arm with a closeness of which she 
was not aware. 

“ If you know, tell me ! — tell me !” she whispered. 

Dr. Sands looked at her admiringly. It was a curious 
fact that there was rarely a man who could look at Miss 
Nunally with absolute indifference. 

“ Oh,” he said, in that brusque way which is sometimes 
so much more reassuring than smooth speech would be, “ I 
guess we are going to pull through this time. Neat little 
job. Jennings is the man for such things. Remarkably 
neat job. Has he opened his eyes ?” 

As Dr. Sands asked this question he went to the bedside 
and lifted Moore’s wrist, putting his finger on the pulse. 

Portia said “ Yes,” watching every movement. 

“And he saw you ? He knew you, I suppose ?” 


HE KNEW YOU?” 


41 


Dr. Sands glanced with the keenest interest at the girl as 
he made this inquiry. 

She hesitated. 

“What!” he said, sharply, “can’t you tell whether he 
knew you or not ?” 

“ No, I can’t tell.” 

“ But he saw you ?” 

“ Yes.” 

Dr. Sands now appeared to forget Miss Nunally entirely 
in his interest in the “ case.” 

He sat down by the bed and leaned his head on his hand 
with his eyes fixed intently upon Moore. 

Portia walked away. She could not stay in the house. 
She hurried into the road, walking back and forth, unable 
to think clearly, oppressed beyond measure. To be un- 
happy made Portia angry. If Moore were not going to 
know her, what then ? 


IX 


THE TIME OF THE CLETHRA 

When Walter Redd’s horse had brought himself and his 
three companions within sight of Mr. Scudder’s house 
Salome asked the young man if he would allow her to 
alight. Without a word, he stopped the horse. She left 
the carriage before he could make any attempt to assist her. 
Not looking at the people she was leaving, she walked 
quickly into a cart-path that branched from the highway 
here. 

The dusk of the evening was now coming on rapidly. 

The elder of the two nurses watched Salome. Then she 
turned towards Redd. 

“ Why do you let her go ?” she asked, with some asperity. 
“ Do you not see that she ought not to go alone ? She is 
suffering.” 

“ I can’t help it. I can’t help what she does,” he an- 
swered, gruffly. “ But that path leads out towards her home. 
Perhaps she is going home.” 

When Redd had seen the two nurses enter the house, he 
remained standing a few moments by his horse. He was 
looking at the house, where the lamps were already lighted. 
He knew that he could not go away until he had learned 
how Moore was. Whatever the answer to his question, he 
must hear it. He had not the least care as to whether 
Salome let it be known that it was his blow which had in- 
jured Moore. She probably would not tell. It was of no 
consequence — not the least. But he must know how Moore 
was. Whether Moore lived or died, he had the best of 
everything, since Salome loved him. 


THE TIME OF THE CLETHRA 


143 


Standing there in the twilight, Redd envied the man in 
that little room. Things were all plain to Moore, since 
Salome loved him. 

After a short time a woman appeared on the porch. It 
was Mrs. Gerry, and she was evidently seeking Redd. She 
came quickly to his side. 

“ I’m looking for Salome,” she said. “ I thought she was 
with you,” 

Redd told his companion where he had last seen the girl. 
He added that “ he took a notion that she was going 
home.” 

“ I wish you would take me home, Walter,” said Mrs. 
Gerry. “ I can go now. They don’t need me here any 
more since the nurses have come, and I don’t know how 
long I could bear it, either. It’s trying on the nerves.” 

Mrs. Gerry stood so quietly and spoke so calmly that her 
last words sounded incongruous. 

“ I’ll take you,” said the young man, shortly. “ Get 
right in.” 

Mrs. Gerry went back for her belongings. But when she 
returned. Redd said that he must find out exactly how 
Moore was before he left that yard. He spoke with deep 
emphasis, and with a sort of still excitement upon him ; 
but Mrs. Gerry was not surprised at that ; indeed, she 
thought it natural that he should feel so. When she began 
to speak Redd interrupted her almost savagely. 

“Don’t deceive me ! Tell me just how things are.” 

“ Why should I deceive you ?” in surprise. “ I don’t 
think it can be told positively yet. I can tell you my be* 
lief.” As she paused Redd took her arm with unconscious 
violence. 

“ Don’t act as if I were a child who could not be told 
anything !” he exclaimed. “ What do you think about 
him 

“ I believe he will get well.” Redd released Mrs. Gerry’s 
arm. 

“ Oh, you do ? What’ll he do if he gets well ?” 


144 


OUT OF STEP 


Mrs. Gerry at this showed some displeasure. She did 
not answer. She said that she would like to go ; if Salome 
did not come home she must find her. The child had had 
so much to bear. 

Redd helped her into the carriage. He placed the reins 
in her band, saying: 

“ Wait a minute.” 

Then he walked in at the back door and through the 
kitchen to the bedroom. He did not notice Miss Nunally, 
who was sitting in the kitchen. He was intent upon seeing 
Moore and judging for himself. He didn’t care much 
about what people said to him. So he walked just within 
the door and gazed at the occupant of the bed. Dr. Sands 
was there, and the nurses, but Redd asked no questions. 
Presently he went out as silently as he had entered. This 
time his glance took in Miss Nunally. 

He took his place by Mrs. Gerry, and drove out of the 
yard. 

“Who is that woman ?” he asked. “That fair woman 

“ It is the one to whom Moore is engaged,” was the 
answer. 

“ I s’pose she loves him, too .?” 

“Yes.” 

Redd turned to look at Mrs. Gerry. 

“ Oh, curse the fellow !” he said, in a low tone. “ Why 
should he have everything ?” 

“ Walter !” entreatingly. 

“ Yes, I know you’re sorry for me. Well, I can bear it 
from you. I don’t often let go of myself, as you know, Mrs. 
Gerry. I guess I’ll get a good grip again by-and-by. But 
things have been rather tough with me lately. If Salome 
didn’t have to suffer I rather think I could bear things. I’ll 
stop whimpering now.” 

Redd sat up rigidly and urged his horse. It took only a 
short time to reach the house of the Gerrys. When the 
carriage stopped a figure detached itself from the deeper 
shadow of the house and came forward. 


THE TIME OF THE CLETHRA 


45 


“ Is that you, mother ?” It was Salome’s voice, and the 
hearing of it went far towards taking away her mother’s 
composure. Mrs. Gerry did not answer, because she could 
not. She hurried forward, and Redd drove away immedi- 
ately. 

“ I came home,” said the girl. “ I knew you would be 
coming soon, and I wanted to be with you, mother.” 

She took her mother’s hand and drew the arm over her 
shoulders. “You know how we said once in Florida that 
it was you and I, mother. That’s the way it is to be, 
isn’t it 

Worn out, Mrs. Gerry sobbed heavily. She was afraid of 
the hysterical inclination which came so strongly upon her. 

“ Come,” said Salome, calmly, “ let us go in. I found the 
key where you always leave it. I said that I would wait 
here until half-past eight, then I would go back to Mrs. 
Scudder’s for you. They don’t need you now. And I do 
need you. I shall always need you — as long as I live. Do 
you think I show any consumptive tendencies now ?” 

The two women had entered the house. Mrs. Gerry sat 
down directly, stumbling against a chair in the darkness. 

Salome found the. matches and lighted a lamp, setting it 
carefully on the shelf. Having done this she turned to her 
mother and repeated her question about consumptive tend- 
encies. But Mrs. Gerry could not answer. She bent for- 
ward and covered her face with her hands, sobbing again 
still more heavily. Salome’s calmness entirely unnerved 
her mother. 

The girl knelt down by her mother’s chair. 

“ Oh, don’t ! Please don’t !” she whispered. “ How tired 
you must be ! You must go to bed. Let me take care of 
you. You haven’t slept for so long. Poor mother !” 

Salome’s voice murmured on as she helped her mother 
to undress. She sat down by the bed and leaned over 
it, stroking the worn face. Mrs. Gerry was now weeping 
quietly, gazing at her daughter through her tears. 

“ You needn’t worry one bit about me,” Salome was 

lO 


146 


OUT OF STEP 


saying. “ I shall go back to school to-morrow. You know 
it would be vacation now, only that there were those weeks 
to make up. Next month there will be no school. I’m sorry 
for that. But I can be busy about something. Do you 
think you will sleep ? I’m sure you will. Good-night.” 

Salome pressed her cheek to her mother’s face for an 
instant. Then she softly left the room and Mrs. Gerry fell 
asleep. 

It seemed strange to both women, though neither spoke 
on the subject, that the next days should go on so quietly. 

Salome rose the following morning as if nothing had 
happened. She ate her breakfast and washed the dishes 
before she prepared for school. 

Mrs. Gerry looked at her at first furtively, then openly. 

As the girl took up her hat Mrs. Gerry spoke : 

“I want to say something to you before you go.” 

“Well, mother ?” meeting steadfastly the elder eyes. 

Then Mrs. Gerry asked, as Portia had asked : 

“ If he gets well what are you going to do ?” 

“Do?” 

“ Yes. Tell me truly.” 

“Nothing. Why do you all ask me that?” 

“ Because — because — Oh ! Salome, it is dreadful, but I 
don’t quite know what to expect of you. There is only one 
thing left for you ; you must be sure of that. Mr. Moore 
can be nothing to you. Remember that. He is going to 
marry Miss Nunally. You must look forward to a life with- 
out him. He is not free. He ought not to have come here.” 

■ Mrs. Gerry spoke bitterly. She felt that it was so like a 
man, even a man like Moore, to have come in spite of 
everything. If he had only stayed away ! 

Salome said nothing. She stood with her hat in her 
hand looking at her mother. 

“Do you hear me ?” 

There was the irritability of fatigue and anxiety in the 
woman’s voice, and she repeated her question in a higher 
key. She added immediately the further inquiry : 


THE TIME OF THE CLETHRA 


147 


“ Are you going to be honorable ?” 

Salome moved her hat about in her hands. There came 
a peculiar glow to her eyes. 

“ I mean to do exactly as my mother’s daughter ought 
to do.” 

She spoke with ardent resolution. She continued, hur- 
riedly : 

“Oh, you must trust me, mother. Now I have come 
home to the North I am going to be good. I am going to 
be conscientious. If you could only see into my heart you 
would take courage about me. You would, truly !” 

The girl’s aspect was alight. Mrs. Gerry’s soul suddenly 
threw off a load of apprehension. 

“ That is right,” she said, thankfully. “ Now run along to 
school. But, dear, let us .only bear our burdens from day to 
day. Don’t let us look forward.” 

Salome walked a few steps towards the door. But she 
returned, the high look of courage and resolve intensified 
upon her face. 

“ It is you and I, really, isn’t it, mother she asked. 
“ And now I am going.” 

Before she was out of sight Salome heard her mother’s 
voice calling to her. 

“ I will go over by-and-by and ask how Mr. Moore is,” 
she said. 

So several days passed. Salome went to school. Her 
mother was busy with housework ; still she did not fail to 
go every afternoon to Mr. Scudder’s and make inquiries 
about the patient. But Salome did not go. Why should 
she ? What was Mr. Moore to her } Her mother, of course, 
could go ; it was right and proper that she should. 

Miss Nunally remained at the farm-house, and Nely Scud- 
der, who was kept at home to help cook for “ them nusses” 
and for Miss Nunally, found in some curious way that her 
resolve to hate this young lady was weakening. 

That Miss Nunally was Moore’s betrothed seemed suffi- 
cient reason for hatred on Nely’s part. 


148 


OUT OF STEP 


Dr. Jennings, from Boston, came and went several times. 
Dr. Sands was there continually, it seemed to the female 
Scudders. Indeed, the country doctor felt that he must 
lose no opportunity to study the progress of this case. 

After a week one of the nurses left. Dr. Sands took her 
away one morning. He announced gayly that it was ridic- 
ulous to have two women there to take care of that young 
fellow when one was enough. The young fellow was going 
on splendidly — splendidly. 

Dr. Jennings did not speak so confidently, but he did 
say that all things pointed towards recovery. He said also 
that he did not think it would be necessary for him to come 
again. When he left the house he saw Portia walking 
down the lane. He looked at her a moment, and then, with 
a decided step, he followed her. She glanced radiantly at 
him. 

“ He is going to get well !” she exclaimed. 

The man did not answer. He moved on beside Portia, 
his hands behind him, his head bent. The girl felt as if 
she were treading upon air, so buoyant was she. Already 
she saw herself and Moore away from this place. Once 
away she believed that time and her own presence would 
insure his love to her. 

Dr. Jennings lifted his grave face and turned it towards 
her. 

“ A man in my place sees a great many things,” he said. 
“ I have no business to advise, I know, but I tell you to 
marry that young man. Marry directly. Take him away. 
Don’t be so foolish as to have any silly, womanish scruples. 
Propose this thing to him. If he had not been hurt you 
would have been his wife before this. Pardon me, Miss 
Nunally. It will be better for him not to marry that other 
girl.” The doctor from Boston lifted his hat slowly, then 
he went back to the yard where the carriage was waiting 
for him. He sat down and did not open his lips in re- 
sponse to any remarks made by Mr. Scudder, who was driv- 
ing him. That gentleman, after two or three attempts at 


THE TIME OF THE CLETHRA 


49 


conversation, gave up speaking, deciding within himself that 
this “doctor feller was thinking about cutting up somebody.” 

What the doctor fellow was really thinking was this : 

“ I am a jackass for meddling ; but somehow I couldn’t 
help it. Of course that young man is bound to shipwreck 
himself somehow. But that other girl — ” 

At this point the thoughts of Dr. Jennings were not as 
clearly defined as it was his habit to have his thoughts. 
Being a man, as well as a skilful surgeon, his mind had 
dwelt now and then upon those two women. He had seen 
Salome but once, on his first visit. Perhaps he had judged 
her then as nearly without reference to her sex as it is pos- 
sible for a man to judge a young woman. And he had judged 
her with extreme harshness, as the best of us is liable to 
judge of one with whom one is entirely out of sympathy. 

Of course it was not possible that Dr. Jennings should 
know Salome in the brief time in which he had seen her. 
But he was a man of instant and strong prejudices, and of 
insight as well. And he was thinking of his patient ; all 
things in his mind were subservient to the welfare of his 
patient, or to what he considered his welfare. 

So, as these two men drove along the still country road, 
the surgeon for the first half of the way was thinking rather 
intently of the complications which he thought surrounded 
this patient of his. 

“ It would be quite enough for a well man to contend 
with,” he was saying to himself, “ but for a man who has 
had that kind of a blow on his head — and who gave him 
the blow ?” 

At this point in his meditations Dr. Jennings raised his 
head, mentally shook himself, took out his note-book, and 
began studying it. For several days thereafter, however, 
there were moments when his mind reverted to that case 
out in the country. It was altogether more interesting than 
usual ; there seemed to be a good many things that might 
happen in connection with it. He must have Sands write 
to him about it. 


OUT OF STEP 


150 

Portia, left alone after this advice had been given her, 
continued to walk on up the green lane. The blackbirds 
were flying about as they were always flying over the 
meadow through which the lane led on its way to the 
pasture. 

Portia fell to thinking of all her love-affairs. She did not 
count those entanglements wherein her heart had not been 
enlisted. There had been two or three times in her life 
when she believed sincerely that she loved. Something had 
happened so that she did not marry, and she had come 
later to be very grateful that something had happened 
each time. 

She was truly in love now, she told herself. There was no 
mistake as to her feeling for Moore. But she could not help 
wishing that there had not been those other times when she 
had also felt that there was no mistake. Such thoughts are 
often the penalty of being in any measure susceptible. And 
Portia had been susceptible all her life, and had flung her- 
self headlong into some emotions. 

Nevertheless, this was real. Nothing in the world should 
make her give up this. Oh, certainly, there was no doubt 
about this. Still, if Charmian had been present, it might, 
perhaps, have been a satisfaction to ask, “ Did I ever love 
Caesar so ?” 

After a time she went slowly back to the house. Nely 
was in the vegetable garden, which extended back of the 
porch. She was picking “ shell-beans ” for the next day. 
Just within the porch Mrs. Scudder was arranging to make 
Dutch cheese. Matters had adjusted themselves so that 
the work of the household was now carried on smoothly, 
only there was, as Nely often fretfully remarked, “an awful 
lot to do.’’ 

Mrs. Scudder had not been flustered of late. She cher- 
ished an ineradicable conviction that, if she had only con- 
tinued mustard plasters long enough upon the back of 
Moore’s head, he would have done even better than he was 
doing now. She told every one of this conviction, and that 


THE TIME OF THE CLETHRA 151 

the only thing in the way of her being allowed to follow out 
this treatment was the strong wish entertained by doctors 
to cut people up. She was convinced that they wished to 
cut people just for the pleasure of sewing them up again. 
She did not understand it, but it was so. 

She was making these remarks for the hundredth time 
to one of the neighbors now as Miss Nunally entered. 

The girl did not linger ; she went directly on into what 
was usually the sitting-room, but which had of late been 
given up for Moore’s use. 

The young man was lying on a lounge. He seemed to be 
listening to the nurse, who was sitting near reading items 
from a newspaper. He looked up languidly as Portia en- 
tered. She paused by the nurse and extended her hand to 
take the paper. 

“ I will read now,” she said. 

The nurse hesitated an instant. But very few people 
succeeded in opposing Portia, and the nurse was not one of 
them. She rose and left the room, casting a glance of some 
anxiety back at her charge. 

Moore was looking at Portia, looking intently, but as if 
with a veil over his eyes. 

It was curious that he should say just now that he had 
been thinking for two days of asking Portia if she were 
tired of her engagement to him. 

The paper dropped from the girl’s hand. She flushed a 
little as she leaned somewhat forward and answered : 

“ Tired ? How can you ask me that when I love you ?” 

The- voice in which she spoke was very sweet and very 
genuine. 

Moore put his hand over his eyes, and with it still there, 
he asked : 

“Are you quite sure of that?” 

“ Quite. You do not doubt it ?” 

“ No ; no, Portia,” removing his hand and speaking with 
a trifle more of animation. “ Let us be married directly— 
to-morrow — to-day. Don’t oppose me. I’ve been thinking. 


152 


OUT OF STEP 


I believe it is best, Portia,” raising his tone somewhat. 
“ You are not going to oppose me ?” 

The girl was now kneeling on a footstool by his couch. 
She was hanging over him, but she did not touch him. She 
smiled at him so that his eyes grew somewhat brighter. 

“ I ought to shrink, to demur, to be womanly,” she said. 
“ But no ; I will not do that. I am ready.” 

Moore suddenly put his hand across his brow again. But 
at the same time his other hand grasped Portia’s. 

“ That is so good of you,” he said, gently. “ Now let 
there be. no delay. Ask Mr. Scudder to come in here. Ask 
him to come immediately.” 

There was something like irritability in Moore’s manner. 

Portia left the room. She was pale, and her lips were 
compressed so that they showed but a thin line of scarlet. 

Nely informed Miss Nunally that her father had gone to 
the mill, and that he would not probably be back before 
supper-time. Was there anything particular wanted } Did 
they want Dr. Sands ? Was Mr. Moore worse } 

But Portia turned away with a shake of the head. She 
was in no mood to talk to Nely, who was now opening the 
pods of her shell-beans. 

When Mr. Scudder did return he was sent immediately in 
to see the young man. Mrs. Scudder sat down to wait her 
husband’s return. She said she guessed she could bet 
what Mr. Moore wanted. She added that things were 
happening so fast that for her part she was dizzy with 
them all. 

When, after a five -minute interview, her husband ap- 
peared, Mrs. Scudder remarked that she wasn’t going to 
wait an instant; “jesftell her in one word.” 

Mr. Scudder put his hands in his pockets and grinned as 
he looked at his wife. 

“One word it is then,” he answered. “ Minister.” 

Mrs. Scudder showed some signs of becoming flustered ; 
but she made a great effort towards self-control. 

The man walked to the door. 


THE TIME OF THE CLETHRA 1 53 

“ I’m going to harness,” he said. Mrs. Scudder followed 
him, catching a shawl from a hook as she did so. 

“ If you get flustered, Rebecca,” said Mt. Scudder, stern- 
ly, “ I d’ know what I shall do.” 

The two went to the barn together. They both consid- 
ered it fortunate that Nely was out of the way; she had, in 
fact, gone to see Salome. 

“ Shall you go for the Baptis’ or the Orthodox?” inquired 
Mrs. Scudder, ignoring the fact that the Baptist might also 
be orthodox. 

“ Orthodox,” was the brief answer. 

Mr. Scudder had slipped the halter from the horse, and 
was holding its head under his arm with the bridle in his 
other hand. 

“ It’s further,” remarked Mrs. Scudder. 

“ Not much. ’N’ Mr. Pope needs the fee, I reckon. I 
wonder what Mis’ Hill will say.” 

Mr. Scudder chuckled. 

His wife drew her shawl tighter round her head. She 
was asking herself what S’lome Gerry would say, but some- 
thing kept her from putting that thought into words. She 
was conscious of a great strain on her mind to keep pace 
with events. 

“ It always seems a bad sign for a girl to be married 
’thout no wedding-dress,” she remarked. 

Mr. Scudder paused in the act of backing the horse into 
the shafts. 

“Wedding-dress!” he cried in scorn. “Women are 
queer things. Now, I’m thinkin’ of the young feller. He 
don’t seem quite right to me, somehow. But then I didn’t 
use to know him, so mebby he does seem right, after all. 
Back-sh-sh ! I say,” to the horse, which cautiously placed 
himself in the shafts and stood motionless while the harness 
was hitched to him. 

“ I do hope Mr. Pope won’t think strange,” said Mrs. 
Scudder, tremulously. 

“ I don’t care a darn whether he thinks strange or not,” 


154 


OUT OF STEP 


was the masculine rejoinder. “ Now I’m goin’. You may 
tell the young feller that I’ve gone. I ought to be back in 
an hour, I should think.” 

Mr. Scudder drove leisurely out of the yard. Miss Nu- 
nally, in the small chamber above, saw him go, and knew 
why he was going. 

It has been stated that the Scudder steed was not given 
to prancing rapidly through space, and it was with extreme 
slowness that it now turned the corner of the road and was 
at last out of sight. 

Portia knew that Mr. Scudder could not return in less 
than an hour. She felt it impossible to stay quietly there 
in that room. 

She must move, walk ; some way she must counteract the 
excitement which ruled her. 

She left the house and went quickly across the field. But 
first she looked in at the door of Moore’s room. He was 
still lying on the lounge, and, curiously, she thought, he was 
still holding his hand over his eyes. 

Mr. Scudder was not afflicted with too much uneasiness. 
He was resting, and he had been hurried all day. He 
leaned forward on his knees, and allowed Molly to walk as 
she would. He was old enough to know that there was al- 
ways plenty of time to marry. He considered that the 
whole affair was getting to be tedious. He didn’t know 
how the women folks kept up such an interest in it. 

The narrow road twisted among bushes and young trees. 
The bushes grew to the wheel ruts, almost. It was nearly 
dark. The air was sweet, excessively sweet. The man 
snuffed it with a dim kind of pleasure. The crickets were 
very loud in their calls to-night. 

There was somebody in advance. It was a girl. It 
walked like Salome Gerry. She had turned into the road 
from a path ahead, and was going forward at a quick 
gait. 

In a few moments Mr. Scudder, who had hastened Molly 
a little, overtook her. 


THE TIME OF THE CLETHRA 155 

“ Hullo, S’lome !” he said, cheerfully, “ goin’ my way ? 
Better git in, hadn’t ye ?” 

Salome turned and said : 

“ Good-evening, Mr. Scudder.” 

He saw that her hands were full of the white spikes of 
the clethra. The flower looked ghostly white in this semi- 
darkness, and the warm, damp air brought out its odor al- 
most overpoweringly. 

“ Better git right in,” repeated the man. He was still 
resting comfortably on his knees. There was time enough. 

“ Thank you,” said the girl. “ I’m not going far ; I was 
only out for a walk.” 

“ All right. Bet you can’t guess where I’m bound,” Mr. 
Scudder laughed. “You may guess all night and you 
couldn’t do it.” 

“ Then I won’t try.” 

Salome leaned against the wheel. The perfume of the 
flowers she carried seemed to fill the air. 

“ There’s a little too much of that smell for me,” re- 
marked Mr. Scudder, critically. “ But I can’t stand lay- 
locks even, when Nely has ’um round. So you ain’t goin’ 
to guess ?” 

“ How can I ?” 

“ Well, you needn’t try. But we are havin’ things happen 
over to our house now, I tell you. We c’n hardly keep 
track of ’em all. What do you say to a weddin’ jest for 
variety ?” 

Salome stood up and away from the wheel. 

“ A wedding ?” she said. “ You must mean Mr. Moore 
and Miss Nunally ?” 

“ Exactly. I’m bound for Mr. Pope’s now. When do 
you s’pose Mis’ Hill ’ll git wind of it ? Don’t you go ’n’ 
tell.” 

“ Oh, I won’t tell. You may trust me,” answered 
Salome. 

“ I d’ know what my wife ’n’ Nely ’ll do if things keep 
up at this rate,” remarked Mr. Scudder. “ I guess I’ll be 


OUT OF STEP 


156 

goin’. So you won’t let me give you a lift ? Be a joke if 
both ministers were gone, wouldn’t it ? I’d keep right on 
to the Far Corners in that case. Got to git a minister 
somehow.” 

Molly, urged by lines and voice, now resumed her walk, 
while Molly’s master said to himself : “ S’lome’s all right. 
Guess there wa’n’t nothin’ in that notion ’bout her ’n’ 
Moore.” 

Salome, after Mr. Scudder had driven out of sight, sat 
down for a few moments by the road-side. She fell to ar- 
ranging carefully the flowers she carried. She seemed 
greatly absorbed in her occupation. But in a very short 
time she rose, stood an instant, as if not knowing which 
way to go, then walked forward in the direction from which 
Mr. Scudder had come. 

She walked so fast that it was but a brief space of time 
before she entered the Scudder house. The lamps were 
lighted, but there was no lamp in Mr. Moore’s sitting-room. 
The nurse was strolling in the yard. Salome did not speak 
to any one. She nodded at Mrs. Scudder, who was adjust- 
ing a collar to her best black dress before the looking-glass 
that hung over the sink. 

The girl saw that there was a familiar figure in the dusk 
of the sitting-room. She stepped hesitatingly within the 
door. 

Moore leaned forward from the depths of a large chair. 

“ That is not the nurse he said, sharply. 

“ No,” was the answer. 

Moore rose and extended his hands, but he sat down 
again quickly, and put a hand for an instant up to his 
head. 

“ I wish you would come close to me,” he said. “ Why 
do you stand off there ? I knew when I heard your step 
in the yard that it was you.” 

Salome advanced and put her hand in his extended palm. 

After a momentary silence, Moore spoke, in something of 
the tone of an invalid who must not be crossed. 


THE TIME OF THE CLETHRA 


157 


“ How cruel you are, Salome ! You have not been here 
once since Pve been shut up in this house. Perhaps you 
didn’t know I was here hopefully. 

“ Yes, I knew.” 

Salome did not think it worth while to explain that she 
had been there at the very first. 

“ You knew ? Oh, Salome !” 

Moore grasped the girl’s hand in both his and bent his 
forehead to her fingers. Her othef hand, full of the clethra 
flowers, hung by her side. The room was filled with the 
strong odor. 

“ I don’t know why it is,” said Moore without raising his 
head, “ but sometimes I don’t feel as if I thought quite 
clearly. I suppose that will pass away.” 

“Yes,” said Salome, “ that will pass; and you will be 
well again.” 

“ Kneel down by me,” presently said the young man. 

She knelt down as he had said, and he put his head on 
her shoulder. 

It was Moore who broke the silence that followed. 

“ Why should we ever part again he asked. 

There was no answer to this. 

“You sent for me,” said Moore, “and I came. Some- 
thing seems to have happened since ; and I think some- 
thing happened before. But it is no matter, not the slight- 
est. We are together now, and we will stay together.” 

Moore felt the girl’s form vibrate beneath his head. 

“ I don’t seem to care really about anything else,” he 
continued, “ only that we shall be together.” 

Salome dropped her flowers and clasped her arm about 
Moore’s neck. 

She was remembering what she had promised her mother, 
and she was thinking that she should keep no such prom- 
ises. To keep promises ? In the next moment she had 
even forgotten them. 

“ I saw Mr. Scudder,” she said. “ Yes,” said Moore, 
with some suddenness. “I sent him; but — why,” with 


OUT OF STEP 


158 

greater force, “ I’m not going to marry her. I thought it 
would be best. But since you have come ; Salome — ” 

The young man stopped. He pressed his head still more 
closely on the girl’s shoulder. 

“ You arrange it,” he said. “ I want you to arrange it — 
so that we shall not part, Salome. Be sure that you ar- 
range it so that we shall not part. Nothing else is of any 
consequence.” 

Salome was motionless as she knelt there, supporting 
Moore’s head. 

A carriage entered the yard. Mrs. Scudder, who had 
found that she could not distinguish a word those two said, 
hurried to see who had come. She told herself that Dwight 
could not have been to Mr. Pope’s and back again, unless 
Molly had flown, and it was not Molly’s habit to fly. 

Nevertheless, it was Mr. Scudder who spoke from the 
carriage. 

“ In luck this time, Rebecca,” he said ; “ I met Mr. Pope 
coming over here to call ; so I took him right in. He 
knows what he’s got to do. It don’t take a minister long 
to catch on to a wedding now, I tell you.” 

The two men laughed. 

“ Walk right in,” said Mrs. Scudder with formal polite- 
ness. “ Miss Nunally, she went out somewhere ; you see 
we wa’n’t expectin’ of you for an hour or more. ' But I 
guess it won’t make no difference. She’ll be sure to be 
right back. You ain’t none acquainted with Mr. Moore, be 
you, Mr. Pope ?” 


X 


A MARRIAGE 

The minister stood, large and portly, with his black coat 
buttoned tightly about him. The kitchen ceiling seemed 
very low with him beneath it. He held his hat in his hand, 
glancing about him. He was conscious of feeling a great 
deal of curiosity, but he tried to conceal that emotion. 

The next room was not lighted ; the one kerosene lamp 
was on the sink shelf in the kitchen. 

“ No,” said Mr. Pope, “ I have never met Mr. Moore. I 
hope he is doing well.” 

“Oh yes, I expect so,” was the answer; “but if I’d stuck 
to mustard plasters jest ’s I’d begun — ” 

“ Rebecca,” interrupted Mr. Scudder, “ I guess mebby 
’tain’t no time for mustard plasters now. Mebby you’d bet- 
ter interdooce Mr. Moore ; then if the minister wants a lit- 
tle talk he c’n have it. Take this lamp right in ’n’ I’ll light 
another.” 

Conscious of having her best black dress on for the occa- 
sion, Mrs. Scudder took the lamp and preceded the minis- 
ter into the sitting-room. 

Salome had risen and was standing near the chair where 
Moore sat. 

Mr. Pope’s eyes first rested on her face. She smiled and 
answered his “ Good-evening.” For some reason Mr. Pope 
found it difficult to withdraw his glance. Salome Gerry had 
always been more or less of a puzzle to him ; he had never 
known definitely whether he approved of her or not. 

“Let me make you acquainted with Mr. Moore, Mr. 
Pope,” said Mrs. Scudder, in that exceedingly proper voice 


i6o 


OUT OF STEP 


which some people use for introductions. It always made 
her feel of some importance to introduce two persons. She 
hastened out now as the two men shook hands. She went 
for the “centre lamp,” an article with a large globe and 
some pieces of glass dangling round it. This always stood 
on the “ centre table ” in the middle of the parlor, which 
was at the other side of the house. 

Mrs. Scudder was sure that this lamp ought to be lighted 
when there was a wedding in the house. 

“ I’m lookin’ for Miss Nunally every minute,” she said, as 
she deposited the lamp on a stand. “ We wa’n’t expectin’ 
of Mr. Pope so soon. If Nely was to home I’d send her 
out after Miss Nunally. But I guess she won’t be long.” 

Moore had shaken hands mechanically with the minister. 
He had responded to that gentleman’s remarks, but he did 
not conceal his impatience. 

“ We will not wait,” he said. 

“ What said Mrs. Scudder, blankly. Her mind imme- 
diately went back to the time when she did not use mustard 
on that young man as she ought. 

“ We will not wait,” repeated Moore, sharply. He turned 
towards Salome, who had been standing near. He extend- 
ed his hand. “ Come,” he said. 

Salome took a step nearer and put her hand in Moore’s, 
which closed strongly over it. 

Mrs. Scudder ruffled like a bewildered hen. 

“ But, but,” she began, “ you’ll have to wait, you know ; 
she ain’t come, you know.” 

Mr. Pope hardly knew what to say. His underlying 
thought, however, was that a man generally knew what wom- 
an he wanted for his wife, and that he should rather let the 
man himself decide than any of the people who might hap- 
pen to be near. Of course the Scudders had made a mis- 
take ; that was the extremely simple explanation. 

Moore put his disengaged hand on the arm of his chair 
and stood upright. There was his old manner discernible 
as he turned his head towards the minister. 


A MARRIAGE 


6l 


“Will you marry us,” he asked ; “directly?” 

“ Certainly,” replied Mr. Pope, stepping forward. 

Mrs. Scudder ruffled more and more. She said afterwards 
that she “felt as if she was jest about crazy.” She actual- 
ly stepped between the minister and the two who .stood in 
front of him. 

“ She ’ain’t come yet !” she cried again. 

“ Rebecca !” cried Mr. Scudder from the doorway, where 
he had just appeared from the barn. Mrs. Scudder drew 
back. Her husband told her that it wa’n’t none of their 
business ; and gen’rally speakin’ a feller knew who he meant 
to marry. He s’posed they hadn’t understood it. He 
could not help adding under his breath that he didn’t be- 
lieve the devil himself understood it. He advanced and 
seized his wife by the arm as if to keep her by force from 
interfering any further, and he held her so tightly that she 
writhed in his grasp. She besought Dwight in a loud whis- 
per to go out ’n’ see if he couldn’t find Miss Nunally. In 
reply, Dwight shook the woman slightly. He said he wasn’t 
going out. 

Mr. Pope did not apparently notice this interview be- 
tween husband and wife. He was silent for a moment, 
standing before the man and woman. 

There was no possible mistaking their meaning. Moore’s 
attitude was erect and imperious. He was holding Salome 
firmly by the hand. She was not looking at him or at any 
one. She seemed to be gazing into space. There was an 
indefinable glory in her eyes which even Dwight Scudder 
perceived. Afterwards he confided to his daughter that 
somehow Salome Gerry’s face that night made him shiver, 
and he didn’t expect he should live long enough to for- 
get it. 

Even when Mr. Pope began to speak, Mrs. Scudder made 
a final squirm in her husband’s hold, and said in a half 
voice that she didn’t think Miss Nunally ’d be gone more’n 
a minute, ’n’ they might just as well wait. 

This time Mr. Scudder did not reply. His eyes were fixed 


i 62 


OUT OF STEP 


on Salome. He heard her say “ Yes ” in the lowest possi- 
ble voice, but in one that was clearly audible. 

Moore’s tone was too loud ; he seemed in a hurry. The 
instant the very short ceremony was over he sat down in 
the large chair from which he had risen. He kept his hold 
of Salome’s hand as if he feared that some one w^ould try 
to deprive him of it. He did not in the least notice Mr. 
Pope when that gentleman attempted some words of con- 
gratulation. 

Seeing this, Mr. Pope immediately desisted and turned 
away, going back into the kitchen, followed by Mr. and Mrs. 
Scudder. 

The nurse, who had also been a witness of the ceremony, 
joined the group in the kitchen. 

A somewhat significant silence was upon these people. 

Mr. Pope had directly taken up his hat and gone to the 
door, where he paused. His face showed perplexity and 
possibly misgiving. At last he said, looking at Mr. Scudder : 

“ It’s all right, I suppose ?” 

Mr. Scudder shook himself with considerable force before 
he replied in a violent whisper : 

“ Of course it’s all right. Why shouldn’t it be ? We ain’t 
goin’ to dictate to a man, be we ? I don’t s’pose it’s any of 
his business if we’d got another woman into our heads.” 

“Dwight,” said his wife with severity, “it was another 
woman. I ain’t a fool. I jest do wish I’d stuck to that 
mustard. I — ” 

“ Oh, shet up !” in uncontrollable excitement from Mr. 
Scudder. “ Rebecca, you’d ought to use your common-sense 
if you’ve got any to use. Mr. Pope, I c’n drive you home 
’s well ’s not. Only my mare ’s so slow’ that you won’t git 
home no quicker ’n if you walked.” 

Mr. Pope said he was much obliged, but he would rather 
walk ; he wanted the exercise. He did not say that he was 
in a hurry to go. As he put his hand on the door latch 
the door was pushed in from the outside, and Miss Nunally 
entered. The group instantly drew back. 


A MARRIAGE 


163 


Portia was conscious with a peculiar keenness of the gaze 
which the nurse fixed upon her. She resented that gaze, 
and stared haughtily back. 

The unusual brilliance of the light in the next room was 
noticeable. She remarked it, but supposed that Mrs. Scud- 
der had thought best to illuminate with that sacred centre 
lamp on account of the marriage ceremony about to take 
place. And this must be the minister. 

Portia flushed as she glanced at Mr. Pope. 

The strange emotion that had come to her the instant she 
opened the door increased until in a moment she felt chok- 
ing ; and she could not tell why. She did not show that she 
was choking, however. She stood with her head flung up. 

Mrs. Scudder forgot to introduce Mr. Pope ; and Mr. 
Pope could only gaze stupidly at this brilliant vision of a 
girl that had suddenly come in out of the darkness. 

Had she expected to be married to Moore to-night ? 

The minister hurried from the room. He was vaguely 
indignant that he had come at all. But why should he not 
come ? And what was the matter here } What had been 
the talk about waiting for Miss Nunally? That was Miss 
Nunally, he supposed, who had just come. 

But the young man and Salome Gerry, who had just been 
married — they were old enough, surely, to know their own 
minds. 

Mr. Pope, as he strode along the dark, solitary road, had 
some shadowy compunctions as to what he had done. He 
had lived long enough to learn that what his wife often told 
him about himself had some truth in it, that he was not 
always equal to emergencies. He could not be sure of 
himself to act quickly and rightly at the same time. And 
yet what should he have done 

He had heard about the Scudders finding that young 
man, and- taking him home. He had heard that Moore’s 
betrothed had been sent for, and had come. Until within a 
week Mr. Pope had been away for his vacation. When he 
came back his wife had related the occurrences of the par- 


164 


OUT OF STEP 


isli to him. His wife was one of those who firmly believed 
that Salome Gerry had been “ disappointed,” and that the 
disappointment was connected with that young man who 
had been hurt. Why hadn’t somebody found out how he 
had been hurt? What if he had said he had had a little 
quarrel with some one and had come to blows, and he had 
happened to get the worst of it ? 

Mrs. Pope always wound up these private conversations 
on this topic with her husband by saying that she “ couldn’t 
help loving Salome, but that she didn’t know about her; 
she couldn’t quite make her out.” 

“ But then,” with a sigh, “ it isn’t necessary that I should 
make her out.” 

Mr. Pope wondered what his wife would say when he 
told her that he had just married Salome to that young 
man at Scudder’s. And now the minister felt sure that 
the other young woman had expected to be married to- 
night. 

Mr. Pope smiled somewhat grimly in the darkness. He 
thrashed his cane with unnecessary violence against the 
bushes by the wayside. 

When he came to a road which branched from the main 
highway and led towards the house where the Gerrys lived, 
the minister paused. He was seized with a strong wish to 
talk with Mrs. Gerry. Did she know? He was sure she 
did not. In the five years during which Mr. Pope had been 
settled over this parish he had learned that Mrs. Gerry was 
one whose integrity was a part of all her life. 

He did not hesitate at the corner long. 

“ I will go and see her,” he said aloud. 

At the Scudder home there was a curious absence of any 
melodrama when perhaps melodrama might have been ex- 
pected. 

Portia stood there in the kitchen for the briefest space of 
time. Then she entered the sitting-room, where the light 
was brilliant upon her and upon the two other occupants 
of the room. 


A MARRIAGE 


165 

Moore was leaning back in the large chair^ while Salome 
stood somewhat behind him. The young man’s face was 
dark with the rush of blood to it ; but Salome was pale, and 
there was a radiant solemnity upon her countenance. Her 
eyes met those of Portia in a steady gaze. 

It was then that Miss Nunally showed that she was thor- 
oughbred. Her slight figure stiffened as if with steel. The 
gleam of her eyes was unswerving. 

“ I’m sure I ought to congratulate you both,” she said. 

“Yes,” replied Moore, emphatically. 

His gaze clouded as he continued, with an effort, 

“Perhaps there are explanations, apologies, Salome,” 
turning to her ; “ are there apologies 

Before Salome could reply Portia spoke again : 

“ Oh no ! no apologies between us, I am sure. Only 
congratulations for you both; and good-night, and good- 
bye. I shall catch the next train to Boston, and be at the 
North Shore again in a few hours.” 

She turned away. She paused in the kitchen to speak to 
Mrs. Scudder with unusual affability. That lady was now 
so completely bewildered that, as she afterwards expressed 
it, she did not know whether her head was off her shoulders 
or on. 

Portia met the gaze of the nurse with so calm a stare 
that the nurse’s eyelids drooped and she flushed with anger. 

It seemed for the moment almost impossible not to think 
that they had all been mistaken, and that this was not, after 
all, the woman who had expected to marry Mr. Moore to- 
night. 

“ Well !” said the nurse, with a long breath, as Portia left 
the room. 

Mrs. Scudder’s eyes were protruding in what seemed to 
be a physically painful manner. What she said was that 
she never expected to see straight again. 

The nurse sat down. She hardly knew what to do. 
Her one dominant emotion was admiration for Miss Nu- 
nally. 


i66 


OUT OF STEP 


Before any one had spoken the door through which Por- 
tia had left the room was opened again, and she appeared. 
She looked across the nurse to Mrs. Scudder. She asked 
if Mr. Scudder would take her to the station. 

The woman thus addressed put her hands to her head 
helplessly as she answered : 

“I d’ know. Where is Dwight.?” It transpired that 
Dwight had gone to the barn to see, as he explained after- 
wards, if he could find his wits. So Portia went to the 
barn in search of him. 

Salome saw her go. She glanced down at Moore, whose 
head was thrown back against his chair. 

“ I must speak to her,” she said, hurriedly. 

“Yes,” was the answer, “but it’s all right. Nothing is 
of any consequence since — ” Moore paused at this word, 
looking up at his companion. 

In a moment Salome had left the house and was hurry- 
ing across the yard towards the barn, which loomed blackly 
in the dim light. 

The wide door in front was rolled back, as also the door 
in the rear, so that a line of clear sky, faintly tinged with 
apple-green, was visible. Against this light, at the farther 
opening, Salome saw Portia’s figure standing without mo- 
tion. She almost ran towards it in her fear lest Miss Nu- 
nally would escape. But Miss Nunally made no movement 
to go. She simply turned her head slightly towards the 
new-comer and was silent. 

There is nothing more confusing than silence can be at 
times ; and nothing more effective in putting one in the 
wrong. 

Salome had thought as she had hastened from the house 
that there was a torrent of words ready for her lips to utter. 
What had just happened had come so suddenly, so over- 
whelmingly, it had carried her off her feet, metaphorically 
speaking, and in her present mood she felt that love justified 
anything. She had broken her promise to her mother ; she 
had aided Moore in breaking in an unmanly way a solemn 


A MARRIAGE 


167 


engagement ; she had thrown herself headlong into the deed 
which had been done to-night. Still, as she looked at the 
girl before her, she felt also that she did not repent in the 
least. In fact, she was not given to repentance. Some- 
times, for her mother’s sake, she thought she ought to feel 
like repenting. But there was not the slightest use in life 
if it must be given up to that kind of thing. Nevertheless, 
Salome knew that there was a sword-thrust in her soul as 
she stood there. She believed that she had a right to 
marry Moore, since they loved each other ; still — 

Salome’s hands unconsciously shut tightly as they hung 
down by her side. She was aware of an indescribable 
suffering at which she rebelled. Since the man she loved, 
and who loved her, was now her husband, surely she ought 
not to suffer in this way. 

“ Portia,” she said, after having waited a little, hoping 
that Portia, would speak. 

“ Yes,” was the reply. 

“ I came out here to speak to you,” said Salome. 

“Yes,” said Portia again. Salome felt her lips stiffen. 
But she persevered in her attempt. 

“ I wanted to tell you — I wanted to explain — I wanted 
you to understand — ” 

Here there came a long pause, during which the crickets 
in the newly gathered hay in the loft pierced the air with 
their combined shrillness. 

“ It was so sudden,” said Salome, weakly. 

No response ; not even the monosyllable. 

“ I wish I could make you understand,” began Salome 
again. 

The other girl remained silent. 

“ It was not planned at all,” hastily went on Salome. “ It 
— it just happened ; and oh, Portia, I love him so !” 

Portia turned quickly. She seemed about to speak ; but 
she only laughed instead. 

“ I mean that my whole life shall be given to him ; I 
mean that he shall be happy.” 


OUT OF 'STEP 


1 68 

Salome’s voice thrilled upon the words. Still the words 
seemed poor and cheap to her. She was confident that no 
one in the world had ever loved as she loved. 

Miss Nunally faced round now fully towards her com- 
panion. 

“You have begun well,” she said. 

“ What ?” 

Salome, like all sensitive natures, was half afraid of 
omens and of anything which she did not understand. Why 
did she at this moment recall with a shudder how the 
crows had flown above her and Moore on the Florida 
coast ? But those days were gone. Everything was dif- 
ferent now. Now she was going to be happy. 

“ Salome,” said Portia, still feeling strongly that vague 
wonder as to why she did not hate the woman before her, 
“I must tell you one thing which you do not seem to know. 
It’s the rock ahead of you.” 

Salome clasped her hands. She was so much under the 
control of emotion that she was half afraid of herself. She 
was dimly aware that it was a good thing to have a grip 
somewhere — a grip that never yielded. Her mother had 
that. 

“ There’s a great difference between Mr. Moore and 
you,” said Portia, with a kind of grimness. “ It rather re- 
lieves me to tell you that he is honorable, and you are 
dishonorable. When he finds that you are dishonorable — ” 

“ Oh, stop ! stop !” 

Salome’s cry was uttered in a low voice, but it was very 
sharp. 

“The truth won’t hurt you,” continued Portia, calmly. 
“ It does me a lot of good to tell you the truth. I don’t 
boast about myself, but I’ve told you there are one or two 
things I couldn’t do. Even if Mr. Moore wanted to break 
with me he would never do it in this way. He would have 
a manliness about it. He would not be mean. He would 
not leave me to come into the house, as I did to-night, ex- 
pecting to marry him.” 


A MARRIAGE 1 69 

Here the speaker made a gesture which was more full of 
meaning than her words. 

“ Let us have it out,” she said, speaking faster and faster 
as she went on. “ I shall die if I don’t have it out. Mr. 
Moore isn’t quite himself — you know that. And yet you 
yielded, for very likely he asked you to marry him now. 
He will be himself after awhile. The doctors say so. Then 
your punishment will begin. I don’t care anything about 
your being punished. It’s the oddest thing in the world 
that I have a sort of love for you, in spite of everything. 
It’s the oddest thing about you, Salome, that, no matter 
what you do, the thing in you that makes people love you 
is still in force. You haven’t any conscience, you haven’t 
an idea of some kinds of honor, and yet how is one going 
to help loving you ? Look at me ! Look at what you’ve 
done to-night ! For all the whole of it, I’m drawn to you 
as you stand there, with that face of yours gazing at me 
like that. What do you mean ? What are you, anyway ? 
You’re enough to bewilder the clearest mind in the world. 
Now, I’m going. You must make Mr. Scudder come after 
me with his horse and carriage. I shall start to walk. I 
can’t go into that house again. Salome, good-bye.” 

Salome started forward and grasped Portia’s hands. 

“ Do you truly mean that when he finds out how wicked 
I am I cannot make him happy ? Do you mean that ?” she 
asked, breathlessly. 

“ Yes, that is what I meant,” was the answer; “ but per- 
haps I am wrong. You do wicked things, and yet you 
yourself don’t seem wicked. Oh, I don’t understand any- 
thing ! Now let me go.” 

But Salome held on to her companion. 

“ No, no ! stay one moment,” she exclaimed. “ I wish 
you would kiss me before you go. Of course you never can 
forgive me ; I can’t expect that ; do kiss me !” 

This inconsistent and thoroughly womanly request was 
spoken in a pleading voice that made Portia angry that it 
affected her. Woman of the world as she was and well as 


OUT OF STEP 


170 

she knew herself, she was so confused now that she believed 
she should never see clearly again. 

She hesitated an instant. She wanted to take Salome in 
her arms, notwithstanding all that she had done ; but she 
despised herself for that wish. Then she drew the girl close 
and kissed her warmly. 

“ I shall try to make him happy,” said Salome, earnestly. 

“ That won’t do any good,” was the response. “ Trying 
to do that never does any good. If he keeps on loving you 
he’ll be happy ; but if he is one of the kind that gets tired 
he won’t be happy. And if he really takes it in that you’re 
not honorable — but there’s no use in talking, and you can’t 
explain love. I wonder what my aunt Florence Darrah 
will say to me now. It does seem really impossible with 
the best intentions for me to marry.” 

Portia made her final remarks in the most cynical of 
tones. Having made them she hastened down the yard tow- 
ards the road, and the darkness enveloped her. 

It was several moments before Salome felt that she was 
outwardly sufficiently calm to return to the house. She was 
conscious of a dread of meeting Mrs. Scudder and the 
nurse. But this dread was something quite superficial, for 
it passed off as soon as she entered. 

Mrs. Scudder was glad of anything to do, and she began 
eagerly upon the task of getting her husband to harness 
and follow Miss Nunally. Mr. Scudder groaned and said 
that he had done nothing all day but harness and unhar- 
ness. He said that it was diabolical that the Nunally 
woman should insist upon going before morning. The 
word he used was “ devilish,” and he furthermore added 
that the devil must have entered into all the women at 
once, and that if this thing continued he himself should be 
carried to an asylum. But he harnessed, nevertheless, and 
drove along the road to overtake Miss Nunally. His wife 
shrieked after him that she hoped he would happen to run 
across Nely, who had gone to see S’lome, and had missed 
her somehow. Mr. Scudder replied that he’d ruther come 


A MARRIAGE 


171 


home ’n’ unharness ’n’ harness ’fore he went for Nely, and 
with this piece of humor he also was swallowed up in the 
darkness. His wife stood listening to the sound of the 
wheels as they rolled deliberately over the damp gravel. 

This sound w^as what Mrs. Scudder called “ so natural ” 
that for a time it seemed to her that she might herself come 
to feel natural again. 

She went back into the house thinking that as soon as 
she had cleared away the breakfast in the morning she 
would go over to Mrs. Hill’s. She would give herself the 
enjoyment of telling that woman what had happened before 
any one else could possibly find out and tell. 

The minister, meanwhile, had kept to his sudden resolu- 
tion of going to Mrs. Gerry’s. When he reached the cottage 
and saw the light burning he could not help pausing and 
thinking that he would turn back. But he could not thrust 
it from him that perhaps it was his duty. And there was a 
tonic power in Mrs. Gerry’s character that he was in need 
of now. He was quite aware that he required bracing, and 
he did not like to think of any unsympathetic person telling 
Mrs. Gerry what had happened. 

His knock was promptly answered. He looked with some- 
thing like furtiveness at the woman who conducted him to 
the little sitting-room. She was pale and calm. But he 
had seen her glance anxiously out behind him towards the 
road as if she were expecting some one. 

“ Did you meet Salome anywhere ?” she asked. “ She is 
such a hand to be out of doors that she takes long walks — 
longer than she ought, I’m afraid.” 

The two sat down. Mr. Pope asked if Salome was well 
now. 

“ Oh yes ; don’t you think she looks so ?” with some anx- 
iety. “ Have you seen her lately ?” 

Mr. Pope paused so long before he replied that Mrs. Ger- 
ry’s face grew quite rigid. She sat quietly, however, and 
waited. She had suspected something as soon as she saw 
the minister. 


172 


OUT OF STEP 


“ Have you seen her lately?” she asked again. “ I hope,” 
in a low voice, “ that if you have anything to tell about her 
you will tell it quickly, Mr. Pope.” 

The man’s heart leaped in involuntary admiration as his 
eyes met Mrs. Gerry’s glance. He reached forward and 
held out his hand. The hand put in his was cold and 
steady. He grasped it tightly. 

“ It’s not so very bad,” he said, hurriedly, “ only I think 
it must be unexpected to you. I hope it’s all right. I’ve 
just married her to that young man at Scudders’. Mrs. 
Gerry — !” as his companion rose quickly. 

Mrs. Gerry stood an instant in that motionless attitude 
which sometimes is so expressive. She had controlled the 
impulse to exclaim. Now she said : 

“ If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Pope, I think I will go to her.” 

The man had risen when she had risen. He saw that 
Mrs. Gerry could not talk. He did not know but that she 
would wish to be alone, but he felt as if he could not let 
her go by herself. He still kept hold of her hand, as if by 
that means he could somehow comfort and strengthen her. 
And yet she seemed far stronger than he. 

“ I wish you’d let me bring my wife to you !” he exclaimed. 

“Oh, no, thank you,” was the answer. Mrs. Gerry with- 
drew her hand. “ I think I’ll go to my daughter,” she 
said. 

She looked round in a blind way for her shawl. She 
found it, and wrapped it methodically about her, pinning it 
in two places with her chain shawl-pin. She said again that 
she hoped Mr. Pope would excuse her. Would he please 
go ? She was going to blow out the light. 

Mr. Pope obeyed her ; but he waited just outside the 
door, and begged her to let him go with her. He ventured 
to say that perhaps things were not so bad as she feared. 
Then he was afraid that he had not said the right thing. 
He was hurrying on beside her. 

“ They must be bad,” she said. She felt that she might 
speak freely to her minister ; and to speak now might re- 


A MARRIAGE 


73 


lieve her so that she could keep later that necessary grip. 
But she spoke with apparent calmness. 

“ But surely — surely,” began Mr. Pope. Then he paused. 
It was humiliating not to be able to hit upon anything ap- 
propriate to say, particularly when it was part of his busi- 
ness to be able to say appropriate things in time of trouble. 

Mrs. Gerry walked so fast that it was difficult to keep be- 
side her. 

“ Everybody will judge her so harshly,” said the mother. 
“ Oh,” with a sudden break in her voice, “ I wish we were 
away — away, no matter where. And Salome is wrong. I 
can’t justify what she does. That is the worst of it all ; even 
I can’t justify it.” 

Now that she had begun to speak, Mrs. Gerry felt the re- 
lief of speech. There is nothing in the world more exhaust- 
ing than the strain of that continuous self-control that never 
loses its hold, and nothing more narrowing. That the 
evil in one’s nature should be held unceasingly in check — 
that is self-evident. But that delusion under which some 
natures live that spontaneity in itself is evil takes half the 
loveliness from life; its iron bands cramp everything; that 
glowing impulse which springs in beauty from the heart — 
catch itj analyze it, catalogue it, take forever from it its ex- 
quisite aroma. Continue doing this and in time you will 
be in that correct state when you will have no glowing im- 
pulses ; then life will be as simple as it will be uninterest- 
ing. But you will always be quite able to calculate upon a 
machine. Still the action of machinery is not life; and life 
and individuality surely were given that they might still con- 
tinue life and individuality. 

Mr. Pope had drawn Mrs. Gerry’s hand through his arm ; 
he had adjusted his step to hers, and without her realizing 
that he did so, he was helping her to get over the ground 
much faster than she could have gone alone. 

“ I wish I knew what was best, what was truly best,” Mrs. 
Gerry said. “ Mr. Pope, sometimes it comes over me with 
awful force that perhaps I did not bring her up right.” 


74 


OUT OF STEP 


She breathed heavily, but she would not slacken her pace. 

“You did as well as you could,” said the minister, gently. 

“ Yes, yes ; but I may have been wrong. Only to think 
that I may have been wrong ! She must have known bet- 
ter than to marry Mr. Moore now. He is not fit to judge 
for himself. He was engaged to Miss Nunally. He has 
broken his engagement, and I’m sure that she is to blame. 
Under the circumstances she must be to blame. Mr. Pope, 
what is it that makes her seem good even while she does 
bad things ? Is it only because I am her mother ?” . 

“ I suppose she seems good because she is so,” was the 
rather unorthodox reply of the minister; and he was so lost 
to his creed as to go on and say : 

“We must judge people by their tendencies rather than 
by their actions.” 

Mrs. Gerry looked with a piteous eagerness towards her 
companion. She could not help placing a good deal of 
weight upon what a minister said. A minister was called of 
God ; it was proper and natural that he should know about 
right and wrong. 

“ But,” she said, hesitatingly, “ our actions spring from 
our tendencies, don’t they V’ 

Mr. Pope did not reply immediately. He was asking him- 
self several questions, and he could not answer them. 

Finally he said he believed that some people were a great 
deal better than their deeds, just as he was sure that some 
of us were a great deal worse than our deeds. 

Having spoken thus much the two walked on in silence 
along the lonesome road. It seemed to Mrs. Gerry that 
breath and strength could hardly hold out through the dis- 
tance. And now, though her first impulse was always to 
go to her daughter, she began to ask herself why she should 
go now. What could she do ? For the first time in their 
lives there came to her the chill sense that Salome, perhaps, 
was removed from her. Well, that, too, she must bear. She 
had borne a good many things. That was mostly what life 
meant to her — to bear things. 


A MARRIAGE 


175 


When the two reached the door of the Scudder house the 
minister was strongly tempted to run away ; and being thus 
tempted, he was quite sure that it was his duty to remain. 

But Mrs. Gerry decided that matter for him by saying, in 
a hesitating manner, that she supposed it was of no use to 
try to do anything about it now ; and it was of no use any- 
way, for Salome always did what she pleased, and you 
couldn’t be sure of anything about her. 

The minister was turning away when his companion said, 
“ Mr. Pope, I wish you would pray for us — pray for Salome.” 

Mrs. Gerry paused before she added, “ I wish you would 
pray that Salome may — may do right.” 

“ I will ; I will,” was the answer in an unsteady voice. 
But Mrs. Gerry’s voice had not faltered. And now as she 
knocked on the door the lines of her face were firm. 

The face that immediately confronted her was, however, 
what might be called broken up in its lines. Mrs. Scudder 
was in the highest state of fluster. She seized Mrs. Gerry’s 
shawl and pulled her in. 

She confided to Mrs. Gerry her fear “ that she -shouldn’t 
never know nothin’ agin,” and also expressed a doubt as to 
whether she ever had known anything. 

These words, coming from a large woman, dressed in her 
best black gown, with a wide cotton-lace collar painfully ar- 
ranged about her neck, were very impressive. 

But Mrs. Gerry hardly heard them and made no attempt 
to reply. What she said, in the most matter-of-fact way, 
was that she thought, under the circumstances, that Mr. 
Moore might better come over to her house ; she was quite 
sure that she and Salome could take care of him. She add- 
ed that he would soon be well now, and could then make 
what arrangements he pleased for himself and Salome. 

These words were spoken so calmly that Mrs. Scudder 
almost believed that she should come out of her fluster be- 
fore they knew about it. Still, there was a little resentment 
in her tone as she remarked that it was lucky that Mis’ 
Gerry could always be so ca’m. It must be so convenient 
to be one of the ca’m kind. 


XI 


SOME MONTHS LATER 

Two women met at the door of a dry-goods store on 
Summer Street, in Boston. They bowed and smiled at 
each other and said, “ Good-morning ” ; then they passed 
on. But the elder of the two, who was leaving the building, 
paused when she reached her carriage. She had opened 
the door of that vehicle, but she shut it again. She hesi- 
tated still further. Then she glanced up at the coachman 
and said : 

“You may wait a few moments longer.” 

She returned to the shop and walked slowly down the 
aisle, looking about her. She was smiling very slightly to 
herself, as if what she was about to do was but the follow- 
ing out of a whim. 

Presently she saw the figure she was in search of, and 
" she hastened towards it. 

“ I have come back that I might ask a favor of you, Mrs. 
Moore,” she said. 

“ Oh,” was the reply, with a quick smile, “ I shall so like 
to grant you a favor.” 

“ But wait until you have heard what it is. Come and 
sit here a minute with me.” 

The last speaker turned towards a couch near the en- 
trance to the elevator, and the two women sat down upon it. 

“You know I’ve only met you twice,” she continued, 
“ but somehow I can’t seem to forget you. Perhaps you’ve 
noticed that it is not always the people you’ve met a great 
many timfes that you think of most ?” 

As this remark was made with a questioning inflection, 


SOME MONTHS LATER 


177 


the other answered with some emphasis that she had some- 
times thought that the oftener you met people the less you 
thought about them. 

The other woman laughed as she said, “I didn’t mean 
anything quite so bad as that ; still — ” 

She bent forward slightly and put her gloved hand in the 
lightest manner upon the gloved hand of her companion. 

“ Has any one told you that I paint a little, Mrs. Moore?” 

Salome’s reply was somewhat eager. 

“ I knew that when I first heard your name,” she said, 
quickly. “ And I have seen some of your pictures. They 
go right to my heart. Oh, Mrs. Bradford, you love the 
country as I do ! — the country with the hot sunshine on it. 
I wish you would go to Florida and paint just a stretch of 
beach and the water as they look at noon when there is not 
a cloud in the sky. You would know how to paint a scene 
like that. There would not only be color, there would be 
heat and light, there would be the South in it.” 

Having spoken thus with more enthusiasm than is cus- 
tomary in what is called “ society,” Salome paused and 
added more moderately that her husband always insisted 
that it was a great mistake to call her a Yankee girl. 

“ I think he secretly believes that I am really a creature 
born in the tropics, and that for some reason I have chosen 
to make believe that I am a New England woman. But, 
Mrs. Bradford, I do wish you would go to Florida and paint 
such a picture ; and I would buy it ; and then I should al- 
ways have a bit of the South with me.” 

Here Salome felt that she ought to be confused because 
she had spoken so freely to Mrs. Bradford, whom she ad- 
mired greatly and whom she knew so very slightly. 

But there was something in her companion’s smile and 
in her eyes that prevented any embarrassment, that even 
seemed to encourage Salome. 

“ It’s another kind of a picture that I want to paint now,” 
responded Mrs. Bradford, “and I am almost afraid I’m 
taking a liberty in asking for the opportunity.” 


12 


178 


OUT OF STEP 


“ Oh, no,” said Salome, not in the least suspecting, and 
very curious. 

“ Well, then, I want to paint your portrait. I wanted to 
paint it the very instant I looked at you. Only I can’t do 
it as I ought. I’m sure I can’t. Mrs. Moore, do let me 
try.” 

It was Mrs. Bradford who now spoke with more earnest- 
ness than was usual in what is called “ society.” But she 
was subject to lapses into too much earnestness whenever 
she touched upon the subject of her art. 

Salome gazed at her companion in astonishment. 

“ To paint my portrait ?” she asked, with a dwelling on 
the possessive pronoun. 

“ Yes, even yours. Is that so surprising ? I should be 
willing to assert that Mr. Moore would not think it surpris- 
ing. And when it is done you may make him a present of 
it — that is, if I succeed, partially. It would be out of the 
question to expect to succeed wholly with a face like yours. 
I wish you would go home with me now. My carriage is 
here. Please come; and don’t say I’m presuming. I am 
in the mood to begin a sketch of you. And a woman must 
take advantage of moods, you know. I know just how I 
shall take you. It shall be the front face, with your eyes 
looking directly into mine. Please come.” 

Mrs. Bradford had risen. She held out her hand and 
Salome rose also. She was feeling very glad to be with this 
woman. She had not supposed that she should ever know 
Mrs. Bradford. She was not at all in Mrs. Bradford’s “ set,” 
and had only happened to meet her at the house of a friend. 

She could not be aware that Mrs. Bradford cared not the 
least in the world about “ sets.” 

The two went to the carriage and were driven away. 
They hardly spoke during the drive, yet Salome was not 
conscious of any embarrassment from the silence, even 
though. in that silence she was looked at a good deal. At 
last her companion withdrew her eyes as she said : 

“ You must pardon me. I know I am staring in a dread- 


SOME MONTHS LATER 


179 


ful way, but I'm getting points for my picture. You may 
pretend that I am going to make you famous. Imagine an 
art reception and people crowding up to a certain canvas 
and asking each other, ‘Who is she ?’ and answering, ‘Why, 
don’t you know ? That’s Mrs. Randolph Moore.[ ” 

Salome laughed in that way that shows that a laugh is 
very ready to come. 

“ No ; that is not what they will ask,” she responded. 
“ They will inquire who is the painter.” 

“ And if they do they will decide that the artist was not 
worthy of her subject. But I’m going to try. I’ve only 
painted a few faces ; yes, I’m going to try.” 

Salome was almost afraid that she would show too child- 
ish an interest. 

“And will you have it labelled ‘Portrait of a Lady’?” 
she asked. 

Mrs. Bradford turned to Salome with that direct and yet 
gentle way she had. And she put a question in return : 

“ Do you want to know one reason why I am so eager to 
paint you ?” 

“ Yes ; please tell me.” 

The other did not smile. A look of deep seriousness was 
in her eyes, as she made answer : 

“ It is because you are happy. I have always wished to 
paint the face of a happy woman.” 

Salome’s hands beneath her mantle clasped themselves 
together. She did not flush now any more than she had 
ever done ; but the clearness of her face was illumined by 
that curious white light which comes to some faces, and 
which means so much more than color. 

“ Are happy women so very rare ?” she asked. 

“ Yes,” was the brief reply. 

“ Oh,” exclaimed Salome, “ I can’t believe that.” 

“ Can’t you ? That shows that my impression of you is 
correct. But don’t you think we are talking very uncon- 
ventionally ?” 

“ Very. But that’s the way I like to talk.” 


i8o 


OUT OF STEP 


Salome was somewhat confused with the delight of being 
so suddenly and informally in the presence of this w'oman 
whom she had admired afar off on those two brief occasions 
when she had been with her. And she wondered that she 
felt so much at home. 

“ And it’s the way I like to talk, too,” said Mrs. Brad- 
ford. “ That’s the reason I’m not a good society woman.” 

“ But you are — you are. You are my ideal society wom- 
an,” exclaimed Salome. 

“ Your praise is very sweet,” said Mrs. Bradford, letting 
her delighted eyes rest upon her companion, “ but you are 
wrong, nevertheless. There are a hundred people here in 
Boston who would tell you so. I have never learned what 
to say ; but I sometimes know what not to say.” 

“ My husband thinks — ” here Salome paused, shyly. She 
had just recalled that an acquaintance had warned her that 
very morning that she really must stop informing people as 
to what her husband said or thought ; that she must re- 
member that the world at large was not at all interested to 
know what were Randolph Moore’s opinions about any- 
thing. Randolph Moore’s wife had acknowledged that this 
must be true ; but in the bottom of her heart she could 
not help pitying those poor people who* had no chance 
of knowing what Moore’s conclusions were upon different 
topics. 

“What is it that your husband thinks?” inquired Mrs. 
Bradford with such an appearance of interest that Salome 
forgot how she had been warned, and replied enthusiasti- 
cally : 

“ He believes that it is of a great deal more importance 
to know what not to say.” 

“ In that case I need not be discouraged,” was the re- 
sponse. 

“ Oh, Mrs. Bradford, don’t laugh at me ! I know it is 
silly to quote Mr. Moore so much.” 

“ No ; it’s delightful.” 

“ It’s delightful to me,” was the charmingly candid re- 


SOME MONTHS LATER 


l8l 


sponse, and Salome hardly knew why her companion laughed 
with such amusement. 

After that there was another silence which was not broken 
until the carriage stopped before a house in that old part 
of the city where there is something besides “style” ; where, 
in short, there is that true flavor of Boston which is at once 
so penetrating and so charming. 

To Salome, who was staying at a new and what might 
almost be called a shining hotel in new Boston, this local- 
ity had a look of something very nearly like shabbiness. 
Still she could not tell why she liked it so well. She sup- 
posed, however, that it was because it was where Mrs. Brad- 
ford lived. Mrs. Bradford was certainly one of the real kind 
— the real Boston kind. 

Salome had not yet discovered that this lady had only 
belonged to the real kind some half a dozen years ; and 
that she was in truth even now no more than a country 
girl like Salome — no more, only, perhaps, a great deal dif- 
ferent. 

When the door was opened to them the elder woman, re- 
marking that they would go directly to the studio, led the 
way to the rear of the house to what is technically called an 
“ extension.” Here was a small room with a northern as- 
pect. 

Having closed the door, Mrs. Bradford threw off her wrap 
and bonnet and began removing her gloves with some ap- 
pearance of eagerness. She walked about as she did so. 

“ I’m so glad I met you,” she said, again. “ I was think- 
ing of trying to find out your address. It is possible that I 
should have been so bold as to call on you. That would 
have been proper, of course, but — ” 

“ I am not in your set,” said Salome, as her hostess 
paused. “ I don’t know a single human being in this part 
of Boston. I should not have thought that I could ever en- 
ter a house like this, where— where — ” 

Here she also paused before the vastness of her subject. 
Her eyes shone. She was openly gazing about her at the 


i 82 


OUT OF STEP 


pictures set against the wall ; at the canvas on the easel ; 
at the casts and busts and draperies. It was not an elegant 
studio like the scene of the pastime of a woman to whom to 
be here was merely a pastime. It was a real workshop, as 
Salome felt. She had not expected this. She had supposed 
she would be brought to a place that was fitted up beauti- 
fully, and where the artist amused herself. It is true that 
there was nothing here that swore at anything else, that 
there was a kind of unconscious harmony ; but it was plain- 
ly merely a workshop, and not the lounging-place of a wom- 
an- who was but indulging a fad. 

“ Where,” said Mrs. Bradford, taking up her guest’s re- 
mark, “ the very cobwebs are cobwebs of old Boston fami- 
lies, and are like the same thing on wine bottles brought up 
from the properest wine cellar,” 

She had thrown off her gloves and her wrap, and was tak- 
ing the half-finished picture from the easel that she might 
put a plain canvas there. 

“ Yes,” said Salome, “ I think that must be exactly what 
I was going to say, only my reverence, you know, prevented 
me.” 

“ Naturally, Now please take off your hat. Run your 
fingers through your hair on your forehead; or permit me 
to do it. There. Ah, truly I’m in luck ! I suppose in the 
days when gods and goddesses came down occasionally from 
Olympus, there were to be seen faces on this earth like 
yours. But not since then. No, not since then, surely.” 

The speaker stepped back a few paces gazing with ear- 
nestness at the face before her. She returned to her easel. 
The fresh canvas was in place. She took a clean palette 
on her thumb and a brush in her hand, and stepped back 
again, looking at her sitter at a different angle. There was 
a flush on Mrs. Bradford’s cheeks and a steady glow in her 
eyes. Salome, contemplating her, could not understand it 
in the least. Of course a woman like that could do good 
work. But as for her, Randolph Moore’s wife — well, she 
could not imagine anything unconnected with Randolph 


SOME MONTHS LATER 


183 

Moore that could excite so deep an interest in her heart. 
She told herself, however, that people were different. But 
to her happy consciousness those words did not mean any- 
thing. 

It was a delightful thing to sit in this room and have a 
woman like Mrs. Keats Bradford want to paint you, and she 
would keep the whole thing a secret from Randolph, and 
when the picture was done she would make him a gift of it. 
She could see his face now as he first looked at the portrait; 
she would tell him why it was that this artist had wished to 
paint it ; it was because she was so happy ; and then per- 
haps he would insist upon her telling him why she was 
happy. 

These thoughts, which seemed even more feelings than 
thoughts, came in an agreeable confusion, hurrying after 
each other as Salome remained quietly where Mrs. Brad- 
ford had placed her. Then she thought that perhaps she 
would, after all, tell Randolph and ask her hostess if she 
might bring him there some day. Of course Mrs. Bradford, 
or any one, would like to meet Mr. Moore. That is, they 
would certainly like to meet him again after having seen 
him once. 

Mrs. Bradford continued for a few minutes to walk around 
in front of her sitter and to look at her from different points. 
At last she said : 

I was right at first. One must be able to gaze straight 
in the eyes of this portrait. There is no other way. Oh, I 
shall not need to name it — not if I can put in this look. 
Do pardon me, Mrs. Moore, I’m not really daft, though I 
seem so. Now let me take a palette with some colors on it. 
It’s not so much the color now as the drawing. Do you 
mind looking directly at me ? Yes, like that. It is not 
necessary for me to ask you to put on a pleasant expression. 
Let us talk. Have you been in town long.? Has any one 
asked you how you like Boston ?” 

“ I’ve been in town about three months. Yes, every one 
has asked me how I like Boston.” 


184 


OUT OF STEP 


“And what do you tell them ?” 

Mrs. Bradford was making rapid strokes, and then draw- 
ing back to look at them and at the woman in the chair in 
front of her. 

“ I tell them that if Boston were only in the South some- 
where, Boston would be Paradise.” 

“Yes,” responded Mrs. Bradford, absently. She was 
making some touches and was absorbed in considering 
their effect. In a moment she appeared to come back to 
the realization of something or somebody being present 
with her. 

“You seem to love the South, Mrs. Moore,” she said. 

“ Oh, yes, I love it.” 

“ Perhaps it was there that you first met Mr. Moore .?” 

The speaker looked at her companion and smiled en- 
couragingly. This smile somehow went straight to Salome’s 
heart. 

“ Yes ; I did meet him there,” she answered. 

“ I understand,” was the response. 

“ Pardon me, Mrs. Bradford, but I don’t think you do 
understand. If I had never seen Mr. Moore I should love 
the South just as well. But you make me talk about 
myself. I don’t think one ought to talk about one’s self, do 
you ?” 

“That depends.” 

Another silence, which was broken by an exclamation 
from the artist: 

“ If I can only get your eyes !” 

“ They’re hazel,” explanatorily responded Salome. 

“ Oh, I don’t mean the color — I mean the expression.” 

Silence again. Salome found that she was gazing direct- 
ly at her .companion, whether they talked together or not. 
She was becoming more and more interested. She smiled 
to herself as she thought of bringing her husband to see 
this picture. And Mrs. Bradford would know directly she 
saw him that it was perfectly reasonable for her, Salome, 
to be so happy. 


SOME MONTHS LATER 


•85 

In a few moments the artist sat down in a chair in front 
of the easel. She still kept her palette on her thumb, and 
occasionally she touched her brush to some of the pigments 
with an absorbed air. She seemed not to be really present; 
and yet she still appeared keenly interested in the work 
she had begun. 

She noticed that it was when Mrs. Moore was quiet and 
her face in repose that it wore most strongly the expression 
she wished to depict. It was then that the eyes had that 
look of intense happiness that so strangely strikes the be- 
holder with a kind of terror. Is it that we instantly say to 
ourselves that no human being has a right to be so happy 
as that ? That to be thus happy is but to make one’s self a 
mark for the gods to aim at ? 

It is true, however, that few of us poor mortals are 
capable of this kind of rapture when to live is an ecstasy; 
when to know that for us there are eyes whose glance gives 
us what we ask is to know everything that we long to 
know. This is the kind of happiness that to the observer 
suggests the deepest pathos — if he understands it. If he 
does not understand it he calls it abnormal, and passes on 
to that lower grade of enjoyment which he does understand, 
and which is therefore strictly normal, and to be tolerated. 

But Mrs. Bradford understood it. And perhaps that is 
why she should feel the tears so near her eyes when she 
met her companion’s glance. 

All at once she laid down her tools. 

“ I can’t paint any more to-day,” she said, with some- 
thing like abruptness. “ But I have made a beginning. If 
you will come to-morrow at ten in the morning — Or is it 
too much to ask ? Do I seem presumptuous ?” She held 
out her hand. 

Salome put her own hand in that extended to her. 

“ May I look at it with a recurrence of shyness. She 
had been thinking that she had been unwarrantably familiar 
with this lady, who lived in what she now called to herself 
the most cobwebby part of Boston. 


i86 


OUT OF STEP 


“Yes, you may see it.” 

Salome walked with some hesitation in front of the 
easel. 

“ Oh !” she said, softly. She turned a wondering gaze at 
her companion. 

“ Do I look like that?” she exclaimed. “ But that is im- 
possible. That is — why — Mrs. Bradford, that is going to 
be beautiful ! And I am very plain. I have always been 
plain.” 

“ Have you ?” with smiling incredulity. 

“ Truly I have always thought so. And how have you 
done so much. in this hour? It seems like a miracle.” 

“ I thought I could catch the likeness the moment 1 saw 
you on Summer Street this morning, and I have been at 
work ” — she took her watch from her belt — “ I have been , 
at work almost two hours. You have inspired me, Mrs. 
Moore. Do you like it ?” 

She stood with her guest and contemplated the canvas, 
her own face glowing with that exhilaration which comes 
from working when the conditions are right. 

“You know I haven’t a good feature in my face,” mur- 
mured Salome, looking at the picture. 

“ Haven’t you ?” Mrs. Bradford said, as before she had 
said, “ Have you ?” 

“ No ; that is, my mirror tells me so.” 

“Very well; we wont quarrel with your mirror — not to- 
day ; though I might speak of your eyes and mouth. Still, 
if a face is not actually deformed, features count for very 
little.” 

“You, an artist, say that?” 

“ Yes, certainly, and I love form as well as any one. 
Come, let us have some lunch.” 

Mrs. Bradford led the way back into the house. They 
sat down in the dining-room before a lunch which Salome 
afterward described to her husband as precisely the lunch 
that was appropriate to be served in Mrs. Bradford’s house. 
This was rather an indefinite description, but it seemed to 


SOME MONTHS LATER 


187 

be all that Salome was able to give. The two were alone. 
Once when Salome, hearing footsteps in the hall, glanced 
expectantly at the door, her hostess said : 

“ Mr. Bradford is out of town, or you would meet him. 
To-night I shall present to him my sketch of you. I shall 
have an unprejudiced criticism, in one sense. For he has 
never seen you. I am looking forward to his thinking it is 
an ideal head.” 

“ I have been wishing I might meet him,” said Salome. 
“And yet I’m afraid. Does he know — ” 

Here she paused so long that her companion said in a 
quiet tone that was yet full of significance : 

“ Yes, he knows.” 

Salome involuntarily sank back a little more in her chair 
with a feeling of relief and content, believing now that it 
might be possible that Mr. Bradford was worthy of Mrs. 
Bradford. She thought that she recalled hearing Moore 
say that he had met Bradford, and that Moore had spoken 
well of him. She was not quite sure of this, how^ever. But 
a man whom this woman loved — while he could not be as 
worthy of love in every way as Randolph Moore, he might 
still be an extremely good sort of man. 

When Salome at last walked down the steps of the Brad- 
ford house she had promised to come again the next morn- 
ing, and she had obtained permission to bring her husband 
“just for a moment.” 

She went rapidly across the common, her head slightly 
thrown back, her eyes introverted, not really seeing any- 
thing save in a way that served to keep her from coming in 
contact with people or things. And yet her senses were 
ready to be alert at, the slightest summons. 

She moved with a sort of pliant grace that seemed to 
have something exultant in it. Sometimes men and women 
who were not too much absorbed in themselves turned to 
look at her. And these men and women always smiled 
first, and then sighed. 

A large, elderly woman, with gray curls each side of her 


i88 


OUT OF STEP 


face, dressed with perfect appropriateness, and preceded 
at the distance'of two yards by a small, long-haired terrier, 
saw Salome coming along the path near the State House. 
She looked full at the other as they met ; she paused as one 
pauses who is not quite decided whether to pause or not. 
But when she spoke there was no hesitancy in her speech. 

“You’ll forgive me, I’m sure,” she said, “because old 
people have whims. I want to shake hands with you. 
I’ve just been talking with a man who asserted that there 
was no real happiness in this world. My dear, you’ll shake 
hands with me, won’t you 

Salome smiled as she held out her hand. She was a lit- 
tle shy, too, and she was not sure that she quite liked it 
that her very appearance advertised to strangers that she 
was not — well, that she was not wretched. 

“ Thank you,” said the old lady. “ I only wish that the 
man with whom I have been talking was with me. But it 
does not matter; he may continue living in his benighted 
condition. Good-bye. I’m glad I met you. I call it good 
luck.” 

Each went her way, the elder woman going leisurely 
on in the precise direction from which Salome had just 
come. And she rang at the same door through which Sa- 
lome had just passed. The servant who let her in evidently 
knew her well, for he immediately informed her that his 
mistress was “ in the stoodio,” whereupon the visitor walked 
directly to that place and knocked at the door, which was 
opened by Mrs. Bradford, who was enveloped in a long 
white pinafore, and who had her palette in her hand, and 
the handles of two small brushes between her lips. These 
last she immediately removed as she greeted her visitor. 

“ If you had been any one else I wouldn’t have let you 
in,” she said, cordially. 

“Then this is one of the times when I’m glad I’m my- 
self,” was the response. “ But I don’t come nearly as often 
as I want to. You know I have to walk every day; it’s 
dreadful to grow fat as you grow old. Let me take a bit 


SOME MONTHS LATER 


189 

of this drapery for my terrier to lie on. My terrier is fat, 
too. There, now we are both settled. Go right on with 
your work. I like to see you paint. But I always have a 
teasing desire to paint you when you are painting. I met a 
girl on the Common just now. I wish I had caught her 
and brought her to you. You could have made her por- 
trait and called it ‘ Happiness.’ What a lovely thing it is 
that once in a while a woman may be happy ! Are you at 
work on anything very important V’ 

“ Of course. 1 always work on important things.” 

“ I know. And everybody says that your ‘ Still Pool in 
Spring’ is extremely important. But, somehow, I don’t 
care so much for that still pool as the critics seem to care. 
I like the white birches about it.” 

The two seemed so much at home with each other that 
there was entire silence for a space. At last the visitor, 
having ceased to be short-breathed from her walk, rose 
and came round in front of the canvas. 

“ Ah !” she exclaimed. Mrs. Bradford looked at her in 
surprised expectancy. 

“ Well, Mrs. Sears, what is it ?” 

“ Why, it’s my happy girl ! So you’ve found her, too ! 
I’m glad of it. You can paint her, if any one can; and 
then, when the thing is exhibited, people will walk up to it 
and wonder why you chose such a subject, and they will 
say you chose from a fool’s paradise. But who would not 
choose to be a fool like this ?” 

Mrs. Sears stood long before the sketch. Her face grew 
very serious. Finally she walked back to the lounging- 
chair and sat down without speaking. 

Out-of-doors, in the clear sunshine that had some warmth 
in it, Salome was hurrying along to the hotel which, for the 
time, was her home. When she reached it she did not care 
to take the elevator. She still wished to be moving. She 
felt the exhilarating possession of abounding life. 

She hastened along a corridor on the second flight. With 
her key in her hand, she stopped before a certain door. But 


OUT OF STEP 


190 

this door was immediately opened from within. A tall fel- 
low, with a closely-cut yellow beard and a general expres- 
sion which was not an expression of misery, gently took 
Salome’s arm and drew her into the first of the two apart- 
ments that were splendid with the upholstery and the white 
and gold of a gorgeous hotel. 

“ I knew it was your step,” said Moore, leading his com- 
panion forward a little, apparently that he might look at her 
better. 

“ Now, don’t tell me that,” she said ; “ you couldn’t hear 
my step over such carpets as this magnificent house has on 
its floors.” 

“ Well, I knew it was time to hear your step,” answered 
the young man, “ for I saw you cross the street about three 
minutes ago, and I calculated. You walk up the stairs ; 
you appear here ; I open the door, fbr I have been waiting 
for you half an hour. I have had no lunch ; I am starving. 
I declined lunching with a friend so that I might get back 
to you the sooner, and I find vacancy, desolation.” 

While he talked Salome was looking at him as she took 
off her gloves and pulled the pins from her bonnet. Though 
he was smiling and talked easily, though his face showed 
his joy at seeing her, a faint film of cloud came over her 
spirits. She could not guess what it was. She was sure it 
was something. 

She had been eager to tell her husband of the incident of 
the morning. But now she asked instead : 

“Randolph, has anything, the least little thing in the 
world, happened ?” 


XII 


“ THAT LITTLE RIFT ” 

For answer Moore put his hands on Salome’s shoulders 
and looked down at her. She met the gaze with clear, 
questioning eyes that might have helped to disarm even a 
stern judge, and this man was a lover and not a judge. His 
face grew more and more wistful and puzzled. 

Finally he dropped his hands and turned away. 

“ I cannot understand it,” he said, as if to himself. 

Salome’s lips set themselves a little. She was afraid, 
but she was only vaguely and indefinitely afraid. When 
one is happy fear is never far away. She walked quickly to 
a chair and sat down. She managed to control her voice 
as she asked : 

“ What is it that you cannot understand .? Is it anything 
about me ?” 

“Yes, it is all about you. I suppose that it isn’t to be 
expected that women should have the same regard for truth 
that men have — ” Here Salome became a degree paler. 
“Women are very different. They have their faults, and 
their virtues. You can’t judge them by the same standard 
as you use in judging men. Isn’t that the way it is ?” 

Moore was walking about the room. He was continually 
glancing at his wife, who returned his glance. He seemed 
to be trying to arrive at something; struggling for some 
light that should dissipate a darkness that was about him. 
His face showed suffering and an intolerable perplexity. 

“ Isn’t that the way it is ?” he repeated, stopping in front 
of his companion. “ It’s just because you are a woman, 


192 


OUT OF STEP 


isn’t it, that you don’t — that you can’t — tell the truth 
always ?” 

He felt that his last words were brutal, but he had to 
speak them. 

Salome’s white face was still turned steadily towards him. 

“ There have been two or three little things about which 
you haven’t been truthful — but I’m not going to talk about 
them. Perhaps it was a kind of inaccurate, feminine way.” 

He paused here, but he evidently had much more in his 
mind which he must express. 

Salome was still silent. Moore walked to the end of the 
room and came back. He stood over Salome ; then he put 
his hand with tenderest touch on her hair. 

“ It’s just because you’re a woman, isn’t it ?” he asked 
again. Then he whispered “ Dearest,” and dropped down 
on his knee beside her, resting his face on her shoulder as 
he had done before when some suffering was between them. 

At last he said, still with his head on her shoulder : 

“ Something happened to-day so that I had to speak of 
these things. And you must forgive me. And don’t you 
think it’s best to talk things over and have the air 
cleared V’ 

Now he rose and began walking again. 

“Yes; I think it’s best,” answered Salome, speaking 
quickly. “ And it is not just because I’m a woman, Ran- 
dolph. You mustn’t try to think that. I can’t hide behind 
that.” 

“ Then what is it ?” 

Salome pressed her hand to her chest. 

“Oh, it’s all coming true,” she exclaimed, with apparent 
irrelevance. 

“ What is coming true ?” 

“The bad omen — the bad sign — when the crows would 
fly over us in Florida.” 

“ Salome — my darling — you really must not yield to any 
such folly as that.” 

Moore spoke imperatively. Salome was leaning far back 


THAT LITTLE RIFT 


<( 




193 


in her chair, her head resting against the dark velvet, her 
strained eyes intensely fixed upon her husband’s face. 

“ I’ve tried not to speak of this,” now went on Moore in 
his gentlest way, but with a certain firmness which showed 
that he was resolved to say a few things, “ but I want to 
understand better if I can.” 

“ You can’t understand,” said Salome. “ I don’t care for 
the truth because it is the truth. I told you that long ago. 
Perhaps you thought you could teach me to care. You 
could do it if any one could. I do try. But, somehow, it 
isn’t in me. Falsehood doesn’t shock me. If it’s pleas- 
anter, if it’s going to be more comfortable — sometimes it 
doesn’t seem as if I quite realized that I had perverted the 
truth. Oh, it’s not because I am a woman, Randolph. 
Think of my mother ! Do you think my mother would lie, 
Randolph ? No, she wouldn’t lie, even to save me.” 

At this there came such a look of agony on Salome’s face 
that Moore suddenly stooped and took her in his arms. He 
sat down in the chair from which he had lifted her, still 
holding her closely. He bowed his head over her, murmur- 
ing indistinguishable words of tenderness. 

She seemed to wish to say more. 

“ I’ve tried so hard,” she said, “ no — you need not stop 
me now — I must talk or I shall not be able to bear it. I 
tell you I don’t have what the minister used to call a ‘ real- 
izing sense ’ — I tell you I don’t have it. One might think 
I love you well enough to do differently. I love you 
with all my heart. Do you think you know how I love 
you ?” 

She put her arm about his neck as she went on. « 

“ Randolph, do you suppose it is possible to pluck out a 
trait bodily, as it were, and cast it from you, as you might 
take out a tooth or cut off your hand? Just pluck it out? 
Sometimes I think I’ve done it, and then when I have con- 
gratulated myself, I find all at once that I have not done it. 
And it does seem as if I love you enough to make my whole 
character over to please you.” 


194 


OUT OF STEP 


“ Hush ! Salome, not to please me. But you know that 
truth is the foundation of everything.” 

“Oh, I know it! That’s what my mother always says. 
So I know it is true. But I only know it intellectually, you 
see. I don’t know it experimentally, as they say about re- 
ligion.” 

Salome sighed deeply. She kept her face closely hidden. 

After a silence, during which Moore’s countenance showed 
his keen suffering and perplexity, Salome spoke again. 

“ What made you think particularly of all this, and of 
how wicked I am, just to-day?” 

“I am not calling you wicked,” he responded, hastily. 
“ I can’t make you seem wicked.” 

Her arm held him still more closely. 

“ What made you think of this ?” she persisted. 

He hesitated, then he said: 

“ I think often of all this ; but the reason just now for 
my speaking, I suppose, is that I saw Mrs. Darrah this 
morning.” 

“ Did you ? Well ?” 

Salome now lifted her head. She looked inquiringly at 
her companion. 

“Yes. She is at the Vendome. She was in a carriage, 
and she saw me on Tremont Street. She spoke to me, and 
asked me to drive with her a few moments.” 

“Well?” said Salome once more, and she added, “You 
knew all about the forged check long ago, Randolph, and 
you paid what mother and I had not paid. You were so 
good about that. You are so good, any way.” 

Her voice trembled and she put her head down on his 
shoulder again. 

He did not say anything on the subject of his goodness. 
He did not think it was any great goodness on his part 
that had made him do as he had done. He loved Salome 
supremely. Of late he was beginning to believe that it was 
possible that he had been mistaken in that unspoken con- 
viction which had been his, that, once Salome was his own. 


THAT LITTLE RIFT 


195 


(( 


>> 


to be with him always, then his influence, their mutual love, 
would work a change in her character. He could modify 
her, make her think and do differently in certain directions. 
Many of us are subject at some period in our lives to such 
a delusion. Perhaps in the first days of love we perceive 
our influence upon the beloved object, or we think that we 
perceive it. Of course we mean that it shall be an influence 
for good. We have an ingrained, life-long conviction which 
that dear one must share. But the days pass and she does 
not share it. But her trait, her belief, occasionally shows 
distinctly, as a sharp rock stands out boldly at low tide. 
There is the rock. There it will always be. Not that a 
mere difference of opinion is vitally separating in its effects, 
save. when the difference is an indication of character. 

Moore felt as he sat there holding his wife tenderly in 
his arms that for them to have opposite ways of valuing the 
truth was likely to be more disastrous than he could have 
anticipated. 

He had more to say, and he was resolved to say it. But 
the saying was even more difficult than he had imagined it 
would be. 

As for Salome, the mere consciousness that she was held 
lovingly in her husband’s arms went a great way towards 
banishing anxiety. But the anxiety remained nevertheless, 
and the uneasy curiosity. For the last six months, and 
especially since Moore had completely recovered from the 
effects of his injury, Salome had been so happy that her 
only fear had been lest she was too happy. It is not dur- 
ing happiness that even the most conscientious are likely 
to feel the stings of conscience, and Salome was not natu- 
rally conscientious. 

She now asked if Mrs. Darrah were coming to see them ? or 
did she ask them to call ? or had she forgotten them entirely ? 

It was the last question to which Moore found it easiest 
to reply. 

“ No, she had not forgotten us in the least. She inquired 
very particularly about you.” 


OUT OF STEP 


196 

There was something in the tone in which this answer 
was given that made Salome sit upright. She had not seen 
Mrs. Darrah since that winter in Florida, now more than a 
year and a half ago. 

Moore felt himself growing more and more uneasy. 

“She said something which troubled you — something 
about me,” said Salome, speaking very quickly. 

Moore did not respond directly. He frowned slightly. 
Finally he answered : 

“ She referred to that time when I was injured. You 
know I never can remember clearly about that time. And 
a man hates to think of a part of his life when he was not 
quite himself — that he cannot recall. It gives a sort of 
helpless feeling.” 

“ But it’s all over now,” returned Salome, “ and you are 
entirely yourself. And we are very happy, aren’t we ?” 

She stroked his face softly. He took her hand. 

“Yes,” he said, “we are very happy.” 

But there was something in his tone, gentle as it was, that 
chilled Salome. She knew that there was more that must 
be said ; and that it must be said now. She tried to speak 
lightly. 

“What were you and Mrs. Darrah talking about.?” she 
asked. 

“Various things.” 

Moore still shrank from telling what was in his mind. 

Salome’s next question came rather hesitatingly. 

“ Is Miss Nunally with her aunt ?” 

“I judge not. In fact, I remember that Mrs. Darrah 
mentioned that her niece is in Florida this winter with 
some friends ; in St. Augustine.” 

“ Oh ; is Miss Nunally married ?” 

“ No. Salome,” with a visibly painful effort, “ I may as 
well say what I’ve got to say first as last. After my mind 
had cleared, and I was really recovered from the effects of 
that blow, and you were my wife, you remember that I asked 
you how matters were arranged with Miss Nunally. I was 


THAT LITTLE RIFT 


197 


engaged to her, you know. Try all I may I cannot recol- 
lect how things were settled. I have cloudy memories, but 
nothing clear, nothing satisfactory. It is like trying to look 
into a darkened room, where there is a little, a very little, 
light, that is really more confusing than darkness. But I’ve 
told you before that I couldn’t remember.” 

“Yes,” said Salome. She did not add that she had been 
glad that he could not remember. She said in a moment, 
however, that at the time he had seemed very much like 
himself. 

“ After you were better, you know. Not exactly yourself, 
but not very much different,” with an endeavor to be accu- 
rate. 

“ And when I asked you how it was about Miss Nunally,” 
went on Moore, “ for you know that if the engagement be- 
tween her and myself was to be broken I wanted it done in 
an open, honorable way, you told me — Salome, do you re- 
member what you told me ?” 

“ I remember.” 

“Yes; and so do I, for that was when things were nat- 
ural to me again. You said that she believed that I should 
never be myself again ; that she thought of my love for you, 
and considering all things, she released me ; and then I 
wished you to become my wife immediately.” 

“ Yes,” said Salome, “ that is what I told you.” 

“ I recall our marriage in a curious way, without the right 
perspective somehow. But I continued to grow better. 
Things became clearer. There was some talk of another 
operation, as if there were still some pressure on the brain, 
but it turned out that this was not necessary. Perhaps I 
was so happy that I could not help getting well. No, don’t 
interrupt me now,” as Salome was about to speak, “if I 
am interrupted I shall not be able to go on, for I am going 
to say something which it seems almost impossible for me 
to say. I am going to tell you what Mrs. Darrah told me 
this morning.” 

Here, in spite of his assertion that he could not go on if 


OUT OF STEP 


198 

he paused, Moore’s speech abruptly seemed to end. His 
eyes were persistently turned from his companion, and there 
was so much suffering visible in his face that Salome, too 
tender-hearted to be able to look at him, suddenly rose 
from her place in his arms and sat down with averted head, 
waiting until he should go on. She could not interrogate 
him any further. She must wait. 

Moore straightened himself and clasped the arms of his 
chair. 

I thought first that I would keep this from you,” he went 
on after a silence, “but you would know instantly that I was 
keeping something. You dive right into my heart ; I can’t 
keep anything from you. But I meant to try. You know 
how you began to question me the moment you came in. 
Mrs. Darrah told me that Miss Nunally did not break her 
engagement to me ; that up to the very moment of our mar- 
riage, it was she, and not you, who expected to be my wife. 
She gave me no details. She seemed to think that I knew 
all about the affair, or I am sure she would have been silent 
on the subject. But after she had made a remark or two I 
suppose my face must have betrayed my ignorance, though 
I made every effort that it should not do so.” 

Now that Moore had spoken what was in his mind, he 
turned to look at his wife, impelled by an irresistible long- 
ing to comfort her. He went to her side quickly. 

But she shrank somewhat, and he stood irresolutely near 
her. He was thinking that he had never before known his 
full capacity for suffering. 

Salome looked up at him ; but apparently she could not 
continue looking at him. 

“ I meant to ask you something,” she said, presently. 

Having thus spoken, she appeared to find it impossible 
to go on. But she did succeed in saying in a dry voice : 

“ I want to ask if you regret that it was not Miss Nunally 
instead of me — ” 

“ Salome, be silent !” 

Moore spoke with such sharp command that his wife 


THAT LITTLE RIFT 


99 


« 


could not recognize his voice. She was not silenced, how- 
ever. She only shrank a little more, still keeping her gaze 
upon his face. 

“ I want you to answer me,” she insisted. “ Tell me wheth- 
er you are glad I am your wife ; whether you ever regret for 
an instant that it was not that other woman whom you mar- 
ried. I don’t care how it happened that you did marry me, 
are you glad I am with you } Now tell me the truth. You 
needn’t spare me. But I shall know whether you tell me 
the truth or not. Answer me.” 

As she finished speaking Salome had risen from the chair 
in which she had seated herself. 

She had somehow the aspect of a creature who is about 
to fly. Moore felt as if he must detain her by force, and 
yet there was something which just now prevented his touch- 
ing her. He involuntarily glanced at the outer door and 
wished that it was locked. 

“ If you don’t know how I love you,” he began, “ it is en- 
tirely useless for me to tell you. You know I came to you 
— you know I told you I loved you — you know — but, good 
heavens ! Salome, what’s the use of talking } 1 haven’t got 

any words. I can’t say anything ! Not anything. No man 
in this world was ever so happy as you make me. You 
know it, too.” 

Salome had put her hands together as she listened to him. 
There was a clear shining coming upon her too sensitive face. 

’ “ And you are glad I am with you ?” 

Moore could not help smiling at this very feminine reit- 
eration. He felt that the tension upon her was too great. 

“Don’t you see that I am perfectly wretched with you?” 
he asked, trying to speak lightly. 

She sighed deeply. Then she also smiled slightly as she 
said : 

“ Then you have disguised your feelings ; for, really, you 
have seemed happy.” 

It was Moore’s inclination to reply lightly again, but it 
was impressed upon him that he must not drop the subject 


200 


OUT OF STEP 


yet; he had not yet made his point. It seemed to him that 
he must make Salome understand what was in his mind. 
But it was very hard for him to know how to say what he 
was thinking. He saw that she was longing to let the mat- 
ter pass out of their thoughts if possible ; that she wanted 
to get out of these clouds into sunlight again. Now that 
she was satisfied with his attitude towards her — as, indeed, 
why should she not be satisfied ? — she considered that this 
talk might be forgotten altogether. But he must go on. 
She saw that he had still more to say, and her face clouded 
again. 

Moore walked to her side and put his arm about her. He 
had a feeling that he wished to protect her even against his 
own words. 

“ One thing that hurts me is this,” he began, resolutely, 
“ that I seem to have behaved in an unmanly and horribly 
ungentlemanly way to Miss Nunally. I tell you I can’t 
bear to think of it !” 

Moore’s face flushed deeply as he spoke. 

“ Don’t feel so,” said Salome, tenderly ; “ you know there 
is every excuse and explanation ; you were not yourself. I 
think everybody understood that you were not yourself. So 
you were not responsible. Do you know,” looking up at him 
intently, “ that if I ever suspected that you didn’t love me 
with your whole heart, your very whole heart, I should tell 
you that the lawyers might think you could easily be free of 
me. I don’t understand about it, but I should think if you 
pleaded that you were not quite yourself when you married 
me — ” 

“ Salome, how can you be so cruel ?” 

Moore’s voice burst in upon his wife’s words. 

“Well, I mean it,” she went on. “If the time should 
ever come when I didn’t make you happy — ” 

Here she was unable to continue. 

“ It’s perfectly ridiculous for you to talk like that,” said 
Moore, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact way. “ It’s mor- 
bid and unhealthy ; perhaps it’s even abnormal,” he tried to 


THAT LITTLE RIFT 


201 


(< 


>> 


smile, his lips moving in that mechanical way which is much 
worse than no attempt at a smile. Then he said, hurriedly; 

“ I’m going to have this thing out now, and then be done 
with it. Salome — ” he paused as if, after all, it was really 
impossible for him to go on; then he took her face between 
his hands and said, his voice almost breaking as he spoke : 

“ Salome, I do wish that you hadn’t told a — that you had 
told the truth to me about Miss Nunally and me. She 
didn’t break the engagement. You said that she did.” 

Salome’s eyes seemed to dim over with darkness instead 
of with tears; her face was drawn. 

“Yes,” she responded, “ I said so.” 

“ But it wasn’t true,” said Moore. 

“ No ; but I knew you would be so much happier if you 
believed it, and we have been happier ^ oh, Randolph, don’t 
you think we’ve been perfectly happy ?” 

“ Yes, yes, you know I think so. But don’t you see we 
are not talking about that now ? Don’t you see what I 
mean?” , 

Moore was in despair. The acute misery in his wife’s 
face was terrible for him to see, and yet, having spoken thus 
much, he must go on. 

“ I mean,” he said, “that I wish you hadn’t told me what 
you did ; it wasn’t true, you know.” 

“ No,” she repeated after him, “ it wasn’t true. Ran- 
dolph, perhaps, after all, you can’t respect me. You know 
I told you long ago, when I confessed to you about that 
check, that I was afraid you couldn’t respect me ; and that 
I was afraid you wouldn’t be happy with me. And now 
you’re not going to be happy with me.” 

She withdrew herself from him and sat down. She did 
not fling herself down. She was very quiet. Instead of 
covering her face with her hands she put both hands upon 
her chest and pressed them there rigidly. 

Moore felt wretchedly helpless, and he felt also that this 
scene should not continue. It seemed to him that it would 
kill him, strong man as he was; but, he told himself, he 


202 


OUT OF STEP 


could bear it ; but Salome could not ; it was cruel to allow 
her to bear it. 

“ How silly we are !” he exclaimed. “ Let’s be reason- 
able mortals instead of hysterical creatures. Come, Salome, 
look at me ; be happy with me ; for we are going to keep 
right on being happy. Dearest,” he sat down by her again, 
his sense of his love revealing itself in his tone as he spoke 
that word, “ don’t let’s be silly any longer. Let’s have our 
lunch. We are half starved, that partly accounts for this 
scene. You need a cup of tea and I need a chop. The 
world will look differently to us then. Only, Salome — ” he 
had her in his arms again now, “ do, do think a little more 
of the truth. Won’t you ? And please don’t tell me things 
that are not true.” 

“ Oh, I will try. But, Randolph, I don’t feel about such 
things as you do ; and I don’t know how it is, but I’m not 
at all sure that I shall think in time — and things look dif- 
ferently to me.” 

Having spoken thus in a tremulously earnest voice, Sa- 
lome laid her cheek against Moore’s and whispered : 

“ You still think you can be happy with me 

“ I’m still sure of it — sure of it,” was the ardent whisper 
back. 

Then Moore thought of the “higher life,” and all his the- 
ories and aspirations. 

“ But I suppose happiness isn’t the main thing, after all,” 
he said. 

“That’s what mother says,” was the response. “ But we 
can’t help longing to be happy, can we ? And we seem made 
to be happy, don’t we, since we have such a capacity for 
happiness ? Dear love,” with her cheek again upon his, 
“you will never, never know how I love you.” 

Moore assured her that he knew at that very moment. 

Presently the two went down to lunch. As they sat at the 
table they talked gayly in that reaction which is likely to 
come, after such an hour as they had just spent. 

After lunch Moore was obliged to go out directly. He at- 


THAT LITTLE RIFT 


203 


(( 




tended to some business with his usual interest apparently, 
but he knew that he had really little interest in it ; it was 
only a mechanical habit of mind that asserted itself. In the 
recesses of his thought was an indefinite dissatisfaction with 
the way he had talked to his wife. He had been quite sure 
he could speak more to the point than he had done; he had 
failed to impress her as he meant to do. He did not quite 
know how or why he had failed. And how dear she was to 
him ! How she was knit into his very heart ! Some time 
he would be able to say to her just what he wished and as 
he wished. And there was in his consciousness that back- 
ground of troublous memory of the way he had treated Miss 
Nunally. It was but a humiliating kind of comfort to think 
that he had not been “ quite himself.” No one likes to 
think of a time when he was not quite himself. He won- 
dered what else he did during those weeks. He knew he 
had married then. He remembered distinctly the moment 
when he had stood by Salome in the little sitting-room of 
the farm-house, and when he had answered the minister’s 
questions. He remembered precisely the tone in which Sa- 
lome had replied. But he could only recall in the most 
misty manner the fact that there had been a clergyman 
present. 

But he was glad that Salome was his wife. When he 
reached that point in his often-repeated attempts at a clear 
recollection, his heart always bounded with thankfulness 
that Salome was his wife. 

This afternoon, when it came towards night, he did not 
go directly back to his hotel. He wanted to be alone for a 
time. Salome’s presence still had power of glamour over 
him, and of confusion to calm thought. And he wanted to 
think calmly. As he sat virtually alone, however, in a room 
of a club which he sometimes frequented, he could not but 
ask himself of what use it would be to him to think matters 
over. It is not after things have happened that it avails to 
think them over, unless it be with reference to future hap- 
penings. 


204 


OUT OF STEP 



But Moore sat there staring in front of him, his lips shut 
tightly and his hands deep in his pockets, after the manner 
of some men when they think they are thinking deeply. He 
was not aware for a long time that he was merely in a rev- 
erie, and the background of this reverie was always Salome. 
What was the use to wish that she w'as dilferent in that one 
particular? He had known before. He knew that if he 
had known even more, he should have married her, if pos- 
sible. He loved her. Continually those words came to his 
consciousness, and almost to his lips. 

But how would things have turned out if he had not been 
hurt ? Salome had sent for him ; he was not free, but he 
had gone to see her, and he had found that he loved her 
more than ever. He supposed that he ought not to have 
gone to her; he ought to have written and explained. But 
he simply could not do that. Perhaps there were some men 
who could do that kind of thing. 

Here Moore made an involuntary movement of indigna- 
tion. He became aware that he could not sit still any 
longer. He went out into the street and began walking rap- 
idly. He knew that the course of his life seemed changed 
by that blow from Walter Redd. Still, could he have seen 
Salome again, as he fully meant to do that night, and have 
gone away and fulfilled his engagement to Miss Nunally? 

Again, perhaps there were some men who could have 
done that. Moore was indignant with such men. 

He walked down Washington Street, glad that he could 
bustle almost roughly against people as he went. As the 
moments passed, the delightful knowledge that he loved and 
was beloved overcame every other emotion or thought. And 
his future was settled. The woman whom he loved was to 
be his all their lives. 

He turned and went back swiftly towards the hotel. But 
as he went he could not keep down the wish that she might 
be different in just one vital respect. Still, in this glowing 
mood, he again began to hope that he should be able to 
change that trait in her character. Surely his love was so 


THAT LITTLE RIFT 


205 




great, his influence visibly so great, that he should in the 
end accomplish the result that was so really necessary. He 
was young enough and he loved enough to be absolutely 
sure of this before he reached the hotel. He was now in 
that childish mood when he would rather run up-stairs than 
wait for the elevator. 

When he reached the landing he drew out his watch. It 
was not yet seven. He and Salome would dine directly, 
then they would go to see some play. There was nothing 
better than a good play and good acting to take up a per- 
son’s mind. And Irving and Terry were in town. Yes, it 
should be Irving and Terry. He would see about the tick- 
ets as soon as he had consulted his wife. 

How very foolish he had been to be so depressed ! In 
another moment Salome would be looking up at him, and 
in her eyes would be that gladness which was his dearest 
welcome. 

It was simply impossible to be seriously troubled con- 
cerning anything since he had Salome ; he could not pos- 
sibly be unhappy for, as he triumphantly quoted to him- 
self, “ Love was lord of all.” 

The young man’s face was radiant as he opened the door. 
But Salome was not in either of the rooms. It had hap- 
pened two or three times when he had come home earlier 
than usual that she was out ; now he was later than usual. 
His heart contracted with that acute fear which is always 
ready to come when one loves. 

Moore looked about him. He was actually afraid that he 
should find on the pin-cushion the regulation note which 
the heroine of a novel always puts on the pin-cushion when 
she is intending to run away either with a lover or by her- 
self. 

Yes, there was the note. Moore walked up to it as if he 
were walking to the cannon’s mouth. He could not keep 
his hand from trembling as he took up the envelope. His 
unintentional look in the glass showed him a face so white 
and full of fear that he could hardly recognize it. 


2o6 


OUT OF STEP 


“ Dear Randolph, — I am going to pin this on the cush- 
ion because you must have read stories enough -to know 
where to look for a note, if I’m not at home when you come 
in. I don’t want to go, but Mrs. Darrah has sent a carriage 
from the Vendome. If I stay to dinner do come after me. 
She has been so kind to me that of course I must go. Anc^ 
who knows but what I may give her material ? I saw a 
paragraph the other day saying that the well-known author- 
ess, Mrs. Florence Darrah, was engaged upon a long novel 
on the subject of general ethics. What is or what are gen- 
eral ethics ? Here I am writing a letter to you. I do hate 
not to be here when you come. There are some street mu- 
sicians outside under my window as I write. I wish they 
hadn’t happened to play ‘ Good-bye, My Lover, Good-bye.’ 
I’m going to give them half a dollar and ask them to play — 
you know what — that little thir\g you are always humming 
when you are in particularly good spirits. You see I can’t 
seem to stop writing to you. Be sure and come to the Ven- 
dome if I am not back by eight o’clock. 

“ Salome.” 

Moore sank down in a chair with the note tightly grasped ; 
he was smiling tremulously, and there was a stinging in his 
eyes. The reaction from that first terrible feeling was too 
great. Salome was so intense; Salome was so — but he 
loved her. 


XIII 


WITH MRS. DARRAH 

When Salome was shown into Mrs. Darrah’s sitting-room 
at the Vendome it seemed for a moment as if she had once 
more come to the Ponce de Leon in St. Augustine, and was 
to write at this lady’s dictation. There sat Mrs. Darrah on 
a couch among shawls ; two or three blue-and-green bound 
note-books were within reach. But the windows were not 
open to let in the soft, fragrant air of Florida ; there were 
no palms within sight ; instead, there were the naked 
boughs of the trees in the narrow park opposite. 

Mrs. Darrah rose as Salome advanced. She held out 
her hand and pressed cordially the one given in response. 
She looked with undisguised keenness at her visitor. 

Do sit down,” she said ; “ sit down opposite me in 
that chair, so that I may see you without twisting my head 
round.” 

Salome obeyed. She asked herself when the dictation 
would begin. 

Mrs. Darrah leaned back, drawing a shawl about her. 

“ I suppose you have an idea you are happy ?” she re- 
marked. 

“ Yes, I have that idea,” was the answer. 

“No doubt. I saw Mr. Moore on the street to-day. He 
also has an idea that he is happy, too. Odd, isn’t it ? But 
then there are times in our lives when we all think we are 
happy. This is the time with you and that young man. 
Take oif your hat and furs, please ; you have an air as if 
you were going directly. You will stay to dinner, you 
know.” 


2o8 


OUT OF STEP 


Salome rose and divested herself of her street garments. 

“ That is right. Now sit down again. Do you know, I 
almost want to dictate to you } I’ve always had a fancy 
that my ideas flowed better when you were my amanuen- 
sis. You know there is such a thing as some subtle em- 
anation from a personality that stimulates one’s mind.” 

“ Yes, I suppose so,” answered Salome, as her com- 
panion paused. She laughed as she added that if that 
were really true, exactly the right kind of an amanuensis 
would be a great thing for an author. But Mrs. Darrah did 
not seem disposed to follow this subject any further in just 
this way. 

She continued to contemplate Salome with a frank open- 
ness. 

“ You always were very suggestive,” she said. “ I’m so 
tired of the ordinary, commonplace human being. How 
long do you expect to be so happy ?” 

“ Oh, don’t ask me in such a tone as that !” exclaimed 
Salome. 

“ Very well. Is your mother with you ?” 

“ No; but I go out to see her every week. She prefers 
to live in the country.” 

“ I admire your mother.” 

• The daughter’s face lighted and her eyes sparkled. 

Mrs. Darrah changed the conversation again with the ab- 
ruptness which she seemed to consider it her right to use. 

“ Perhaps Mr. Moore mentioned to you that I accident- 
ally spoke of a subject on which I supposed that he was 
well informed ? I see he did mention it. I ought not to 
have been so careless. That was your affair, and his. In- 
teresting, though, very. I’ve made notes of it. One never 
knows what one may want to use. And I wished to ask 
you if anything — now do pardon me, but I ask in the inter- 
est of my work — if anything you have ever done, any wrong 
thing, you know, causes you to be less happy ? Would you 
mind answering?” 

Salome could not understand why this question did not 


WITH MRS. DARRAH 


209 


make her angry. But there were a certain simplicity and 
singleness of purpose in the woman before her, and she 
had really been so kind to her that Salome felt no resent- 
ment. But she felt some confusion. She did not quite 
know how to answer. 

“ We have been instructed, you remember,” went on Mrs. 
Darrah, “ that our consciences make it impossible for us to 
be happy, even under favorable circumstances, unless our 
consciences are in that state which our orthodox fore- 
fathers used to call ‘ seared.’ You are far too young for 
that process to have been accomplished. But you are 
happy, aren’t you ? Anyway, you have been happy since 
your marriage ?” 

“Yes, yes,” replied Salome. 

“ And no moments of agony because of some things you 
have done ?” 

“ No.” 

Mrs. Darrah reached for a note-book. 

“ Please forgive me, but I really must ask if the thought 
of the fact that — that you have allowed Mr. Moore to think 
as he has done of the circumstances of his marriage — has 
not that thought made you miserable ?” 

Salome’s face was tense, and it was paler than usual, but 
she answered with that frankness which was characteristic 
of her when speaking of her inner self. 

“ No, I have not been miserable at all, except in the rare 
moments when I would have a fear that my husband would 
find out the truth. It was better, since he would be happier, 
and I also should be happier, if he never knew the truth.” 

Mrs. Darrah’s little, alert face became yet more alert. 

She began to write, saying as she did so ; 

“ This is really charming — this is delightful. The amount 
of it is that you don’t care in the least.” 

“ Oh,” exclaimed Salome, eagerly, “ I care a great deal if 
somebody comes to know it and is made unhappy.” 

“ But if nobody knows, and nobody is made unhappy be- 
cause of what you may do in that way?” 

14 


210 


OUT OF STEP 


“ Then I don’t care anything at all,” with an accent of 
relief. 

“ That’s just what I w^ant to come at. How much would 
the best of us care for right, pure and simple, if nobody 
would ever know and nobody would ever be unhappy ?” 

Salome leaned forward. She put out one hand as if in 
emphasis. 

“ Oh, Mrs. Darrah,” she said, quickly, “ I don’t under- 
stand why it is, and I’m not so one bit, but my mother is 
one of those people who do right because it is right. And 
since my mother does so, I have times when I long to be 
able to do so. I mean I used to have such times before 
I became well and happy. I wonder why it is, Mrs. Darrah, 
but when we are happy we seem to be good — even if we 
are not good, you know.” 

Salome spoke thus as if she were the first person who 
had ever puzzled over that state of being. 

“ Of course if I hadn’t known that Randolph — Mr. Moore 
— loved me — if I had not known it beyond the shadow of 
a doubt, I couldn’t have allowed things to go just as they 
did. But knowing that, why should I care too deeply for 
anything else ? But my mother cares.” 

When Salome said “my mother cares” her voice trembled 
slightly and her eyes fell. 

Mrs. Darrah ceased writing. She pressed the top of her 
pencil to her lips and silently contemplated the face oppo- 
site her. 

“ Do you know what is the most curious thing I ever 
knew ?” she asked, after a moment. 

Salome shook her head. She was still thinking of her 
mother. 

“ It is that my niece doesn’t hate you, that she really has 
an affection for you. But still, when I sit here and look at 
you, I can quite understand that ; whatever you might do, 
people would always feel, when in your presence, that, some- 
how, it wasn’t the same thing for you to — to — forgive 
again — to forge and lie as — ” 


me 


WITH MRS. DARRAH 


21 I 


“ Don’t !— don’t !” 

Salome’s eyes dilated painfully, then she suddenly cov- 
ered her face with her hands. 

“ You don’t like the sound of those words?” asked Mrs. 
Darrah. 

“ No.” 

“ But the deeds themselves — ” 

Mrs. Darrah paused. She held her pencil poised over a 
page of her note-book. She was telling herself that here 
was such an abundance of material that she was embar- 
rassed by it. The subject of general ethics seemed yet 
more vast than it had hitherto seemed. She almost be- 
lieved that she would be obliged to introduce two or three 
more characters into her novel ; and she hardly knew 
whether even that change would avail. 

“ What I want to discover,” began Mrs. Darrah again, 
“ is why I’m not shocked and horrified by you, Mrs. Moore. 
I really am shocked and horrified by falsehood and forgery 5 
and falsehood and forgery are the same things at all times. 
Of course, I know about extenuating circumstances and all 
that kind of talk. I’ve been through those things a thou- 
sand times ; it’s like a horse on a tread-mill ; you keep go- 
ing and you never get anywhere. Sometimes I’m not sure 
of anything definite. Now I should like to ask some one 
who could tell me why you should invariably give the im- 
pression of one to whom guilt of any kind must be utterly 
alien. Don’t shrink so. I know I’m hurting you, but think 
of general ethics ; think I’m only considering you as mate- 
rial, and you won’t care in the least. Can’t you throw any 
light on this subject, Mrs. Moore ?” 

Salome did not try to reply in words ; she only shook her 
head distressfully. She was beginning to feel resentful, 
but she endeavored to stifle her resentment. She had a 
feeling that this kind of suffering was a sort of penance for 
what she had done, and that she must endure it. 

“Your atmosphere,” said Mrs. Darrah, “is one of special 
innocence. Now, how do you account for that ?” 


2 12 


OUT OF STEP 


The authoress, who was particularly indolent as regarded 
bodily movement, now threw aside her shawls, rose, and 
began walking about the room. 

Salome had flung herself back in her chair with a despair- 
ing movement. She was blessed with a sweet and forbear- 
ing temper, but she knew that her indignation could not be 
restrained much longer, even though she might view this 
hour as a penance. But then this woman had been very 
kind when kindness and consideration were worth a good 
deal. 

“ About your marriage,” suddenly said Mrs. Darrah, paus- 
ing and gazing at her guest. “ Of course you knew that 
Mr. Moore would learn all about it some time. Several 
people knew it. Some one was sure to tell him sooner or 
later. I’m sorry that I happened to be the one. You ought 
to have told him yourself.” 

“ I thought — ” began Salome. Then she broke off to 
say with some vehemence, “ but why should I tell you what 
I thought.^” 

“Tell me. You certainly know I am your friend; and, 
contrary to the dictates of my judgment, I love you. You 
must have a great personal magnetism; but that doesn’t 
account in the least for that wonderful impression of inno- 
cence which you give.” 

“ Oh, Mrs. Darrah, won’t you stop talking about me } I 
can’t bear it any longer ; indeed I cannot !” 

Salome rose and took her fur wrap and began impetuously 
to put it on, saying as she did so : 

“ I haven’t forgotten how good you’ve been to me, but 
this is more than I can endure.” 

Mrs. Darrah drew the garment from her guest with a 
gentle motion. She was smiling in that whimsical way she 
had. 

“I’m afraid you are not considering the light I wish to 
shed upon the world on the topic of ethics, and you don’t 
remember how much the world needs that light. But never 
mind. You are not going to leave me now. I’ll put up my 


WITH MRS. DARRAH 


213 


note-books. Surely you can’t ask me to do anything more 
than that ? Now let us gossip.” 

Mrs. Darrah placed her hand for an instant caressingly 
on Salome’s shoulder, then she bade her sit down again ; 
and presently she said : 

“ Tell me about your mother.” 

Salome had resumed her seat. She seemed weary and 
dispirited, but she was plainly making an effort to overcome 
that state of body and mind. It is usually depressing to 
have a glimpse of the precise way in which other people 
look at us. She felt that she had to-night had such a 
glimpse. 

“There is nothing to tell about my mother,” she an- 
swered. 

“ She is out there in the country ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Alone ?” 

“ Yes ; she preferred to be alone. We wanted her to 
stay with us, but she said she would rather live in the 
country. And she said — ” Salome hesitated ; there was a 
quiver about her mouth as she finished — “ she said that she 
was sure I should be happier without her.” 

“ She was right,” decisively remarked Mrs. Darrah. 

“ She was wrong,” as decisively returned Salome. “ I am 
never happier without my mother.” 

“ Dear child !” murmured the other in a voice much less 
dry than her usual tone. “ But she must be wretched with- 
out you.” 

“ Mrs. Darrah,” said Salome, piteously, “ I can’t bear to 
be hurt any more this afternoon. It seems to me that I am 
always thinking of her. We are going South early next 
fall, and she has promised to go with us. She doesn’t like 
the South, but I’m sure she will be happy with us — I’m 
sure of it,” repeating the words fervently, “ and this sum- 
mer that is coming we mean to spend with her out there in 
the country where I was born. Randolph — Mr. Moore — 
loves the country as well as I do. But how I am talking 


214 


OUT OF STEP 


of my own affairs. You shouldn’t let me do it, Mrs. 
Darrah.” 

“ Yes, I should let you do it as long as you interest me,” 
was the reply. 

The two chatted on of this and that, and Salome re- 
covered her spirits. The conversation she had had with 
her husband had only depressed her for the time ; the buoy- 
ant reaction from it had not yet subsided ; and besides, 
she was still absolutely sure of his love and of her power 
to make him happy. While she could be sure in that way 
it was simply impossible for her to be miserable. 

Perhaps he was by this time back in their rooms — he was 
reading the note she had left for him — he would soon come 
to the Vendome. Her face grew radiant as the moments 
went on. She listened to her hostess, who, when she 
chose to talk, had a keen wit and a satirical way of putting 
things. 

In a pause in the conversation Salome said : 

“ You spoke of Miss Nunally. Is she well and happy ?” 

In spite of herself she listened with a strained attention 
for the reply. She would hardly have been a woman if 
there were not some bitterness for her in the thought of 
Miss Nunally. But she did not now dwell upon bitter 
thoughts. Happiness crowded all unhappiness out of her 
heart. 

“ Oh,” said Mrs. Darrah, “ Portia is much as usual. She 
says that when she is a little older she is going to join 
some kind of a sisterhood and devote herself to good 
works. Portia is one who must have her fling. I advise 
her to be quite sure that she has had it before she joins 
that sisterhood ; otherwise ” — with a short laugh, “ I should 
be sorry for that institution.” 

“ She will marry,” said Salome. 

“ Yes, eventually. Such a girl is sure to marry ; but she 
really has no more vocation towards marriage than towards 
being a hermit. A hundred times I’ve thought I would 
wash my hands of Portia, but I can’t— I like the girl ; still, 


WITH MRS. DARRAH 


215 


I should be in despair if I were in any way dependent on 
her for happiness.” 

While she talked Mrs. Darrah did not try to conceal the 
fact that she was watching her guest continually. Suddenly 
she exclaimed : 

“ Somehow you are really putting me in good spirits. 
That is odd, for I have noticed that people who are happy 
usually have a depressing effect upon me — force of con- 
trast, I suppose. It’s a long time since I was happy. But 
I’m generally comfortable. Happiness makes one so ego- 
tistic that one is insufferable. Now with you it is different. 
I may say I quite bask in your presence. Do you think 
you could pardon me if I take my note -book again.? 
Thanks. You see, ideas are so rare with the best of us 
that when I think I have one I must make haste to get it 
on paper. I am sure to forget my best things if I don’t 
fasten them directly.” 

Salome, as her hostess wrote, strolled around the room 
looking at the pictures and the books. It was Mrs. Darrah’s 
custom to take about with her two or three pictures and a 
box of books, and little things which her maid was instruct- 
ed to arrange immediately they had secured rooms at a 
hotel. She said the average pictures in apartments in the 
best hotel in the world were enough to drive one frantic ; 
and as she spent a great deal of time in such places, she could 
not afford to be driven frantic so often and so continuously. 

Now, after writing a few lines, Mrs. Darrah raised her 
eyes and fixed them upon Salome as she walked slowly, 
stopping before • the pictures. A phrase from a French 
writer came into the woman’s mind : 

“ Everything is involuntary with her ; that is the secret 
of her charm.” 

“ Yes,” thought Mrs. Darrah, “ anything studied may 
attract, but it is the involuntary that holds one.” And she 
added to herself with some cynicism, “of course, Moore 
loves her ; and he will always love her, or as long as it is 
in the male human nature to love one woman.” 


2i6 


OUT OF STEP 


Salome was standing with her hands clasped behind her 
before a canvas on the wall ; the full radiance of the light 
was on her figure. Mrs. Darrah’s wizened face beamed as 
it was turned towards her. 

“ My dear child,” she said, “ do you ever read Cher- 
buliez ?” 

“No,” answered Salome; “ to tell the truth,” hesitatingly, 
“ I don’t think I read very much.” 

“ Oh, well, it isn’t necessary for you to read — you are 
living. I was going to quote from Cherbuliez. In looking 
at you just now I am ‘ tempted to accompany you on the 
harp.’ Isn’t that pretty? Now I understand precisely what 
he meant by that phrase.” 

“ Oh, Mrs. Darrah !” exclaimed Salome with a laugh. She 
was putting from her the thought of how this woman had 
wounded her a few moments ago. It was so easy to put 
from her everything disagreeable ; for did she not love, 
and was she not beloved ? 

Salome continued to look at the picture — a bit of upland 
pasture where some savins grew, and where three crows were 
flying. There was no cloud in the sky, which was a mid- 
summer sky, the sky of an intensely hot day. This drew 
Salome and held her. 

“ The man who painted this,” she said, “ knew what 
midsummer is, what heat and brilliant light are. I wish I 
had something like this to look at in those horrible chilling 
days when I am left alone.” 

Mrs. Darrah glanced at the wall. 

“That.?” she responded, “that isn’t a man’s work; that 
is one of Mrs. Bradford’s.” 

Salome turned quickly. She was not much more versed 
in art than in literature ; but she had a natural good taste 
which might be depended upon in a selection. 

“ Mrs. Bradford ?” she repeated, “ why, that must be my 
Mrs. Bradford !” 

Her eyes glowed with pleasure. 

“ Have you a Mrs. Bradford, then ?” asked Mrs. Darrah. 


WITH MRS. DARRAH 


217 


“ I didn’t know you knew her. I became acquainted with 
her work two or three years ago, and I liked it. It isn’t 
pretentious ; it’s true ; and it has feeling. There is no 
work in the world without feeling that is worth a rap. 
You’ve heard that there are only two kinds of people, 
haven’t you, Mrs. Moore ?” 

“ No,” said Salome, still standing before the picture and 
gazing at it with even greater interest. “ What are the two 
kinds ?” 

“ ‘ The people who kindle and the people who don’t ’ ; 
I’m quoting again. Now Mrs. Bradford is one of those 
who kindle. I have met her a few times this winter. I’m 
glad you know her. As one grows older there are fewer 
and fewer men and women one cares to know. They are 
mostly bores ; and you become a bore yourself, only you 
can forgive in yourself what you can’t forgive in another. I 
see by your face that you like Mrs. Bradford.” 

“ Oh yes, so much. She wanted me to — ” 

Here Salome paused, thinking it would seem egotistical 
to go on. But Mrs. Darrah insisted. 

“ Don’t break off in the middle of a sentence,” she ex- 
claimed. “ It must be interesting to know what Mrs. Brad- 
ford wanted of you.” 

“ She said she wished to paint my portrait,” was the 
answer, given with a little shyness. 

“ Ah ! I like that. • I was not mistaken in Mrs. Bradford. 
She is like me, she knows — she knows.” 

It did not seem necessary for Mrs. Darrah to explain what 
she and Mrs. Bradford knew. 

Salome was not sure but that she ought to be sorry she 
had told this. She reflected that even her husband did not 
yet know it. Their talk upon, another topic had been so 
absorbing that she had not spoken of this, and when their 
mood had changed at lunch she had decided that there was 
not time ; she did not like to be hurried. 

“ Has she begun it ?” now inquired Mrs. Darrah with 
great interest. 


2i8 


OUT OF STEP 


“ Yes, this morning.” 

“ I wish I might see her at work. It is so interesting to 
see an artist at work. But you will be starving by this 
time. Let us go down to dinner. I take my dinner with 
the great herd occasionally. The great herd is depressing, 
but then it is depressing also to feed alone. In point of 
fact nearly everything is lowering in some way. I hope you 
told Mr. Moore to come to fetch you. Yes, that’s right. 
Now he is one of those who don’t carry about a lowering 
temperature with them. He is essentially genial. He is 
not what you called keyed up to too high a pitch, and he 
is not stolid.” 

“ Oh no ; he isn’t stolid,” Salome hastened to say ; and 
then she wished that she had not spoken, for Mrs. Darrah 
smiled at her quizzically. 

The two were at the table now. Salome had ceased to 
be awed by what had first seemed to her the vastness of 
hotel service, and the strange indifference of everybody to 
everybody else. She had surrounded herself with her own 
atmosphere of love and happiness, and was now placidly 
sorry that there was no one else in the world so happy as 
she and her husband were. Notwithstanding the suffering 
of a few hours before, Salome had a conviction that their 
happiness was absolutely invincible. It must be, she told 
herself, as she went about day after day, and now as she 
sat by Mrs. Darrah in the big dining-room, she leaned 
upon that happiness as upon a stable bulwark ; she was 
always feeling that “ impassioned calm,” that subtlety of 
“ tranquil passion ” which, as some one has said, is the 
perfection of happiness, and which cannot be known out- 
side of mutual love. That is what Salome believed. As 
she glanced at the elderly, shrunken woman by her side she 
wondered if Mrs. Darrah knew this great truth about love. 
There were so many things to know about love which 
Salome was sure were not generally known. She was con- 
vinced that she had discovered a great many facts bearing 
upon this subject. Of course, other people had been happy 


WITH MRS. DARRAH 


219 


in a degree ; other people had thought they loved, and 
doubtless had done so. Nevertheless, it remained true that 
no two in the world could ever have known the extreme 
felicity which she and her husband knew, and were to con- 
tinue to know as the years went by. 

Thinking and feeling thus, Salome listened to Mrs. Dar- 
rah’s talk as she sat beside her and replied gayly. She was 
watching the passing of the time, for every moment brought 
nearer the coming of Moore. She could not deny but that 
in the bottom of her heart there was a grain of anxiety as 
to his face and manner. Would that talk have left even the 
slightest cloud ? 

When he did appear even this suspicion of anxiety van- 
ished, for Moore came with poorly disguised eagerness after 
reading his wife’s note. 

As he allowed himself an instant’s glance into Salome’s 
eyes, his spirits bubbled up with joyous effervescence. The 
past was past, in the future, of course, Salome would grad- 
ually be impressed by his influence, and besides there 
would be no temptation for her to — he hesitated in his 
thoughts, and finally he ended his sentence with the phrase 
“ to prevaricate.” Besides, all women prevaricated. Per- 
haps it was not in the feminine nature to have any real 
sense of the truth. That is, it was not a characteristic of 
the feminine nature. 

About that forgery now, it was plain enough that she had 
no “realizing sense.” Yes, indeed, things would come out 
all right. He had only to love and to be patient. And he 
felt a boundless capacity both for loving and for patience. 

It was when the two were walking homeward in the clear 
cold of the evening that Salome told her companion of her 
meeting with Mrs. Bradford, and of the first sitting for the 
portrait. It seemed to her that they had never been so 
happy, never so thoroughly in sympathy as now, as they 
walked under the street-lamps. There was an elation of 
which Salome was keenly conscious. It would have been 
impossible that she should not, sometimes, have thought 


220 


OUT OF STEP 


with dread of the time when Moore would learn all the in- 
cidents connected with their marriage. Now he knew, and 
he still loved her. They were still one. 

She hung upon his arm. She talked rapidly of Mrs. 
Bradford, and of how Mrs. Bradford was the kind of woman 
she liked. And permission had been given for Moore to 
visit the studio in the morning, and— 

“Ah! there she is now, in that carriage — right here. 
The woman in the white fur-cloak. She sees me. Ran- 
dolph, don’t you like her smile ? Why, she is going to speak 
to me.” 

The carriage stopped, and Mrs. Bradford, evidently in 
opera dress, leaned forward and made a gesture which 
Salome obeyed, going to the edge of the sidewalk, Moore 
remaining a pace in the rear. 

“ I was going to send a message to you, Mrs. Moore,” 
said Mrs. Bradford, “ but as I saw you I couldn’t resist the 
wish to stop you. Don’t come to-morrow morning ; I shall 
be away ; but come the day after.” 

“Yes,” said Salome. 

Mrs. Bradford still remained leaning forward, slightly, 
looking at Salome and smiling as one smiles, involuntarily, 
at sight of a radiant face. Directly, however, she drew 
back. The carriage went on. Salome gazed after it an 
instant, drew a long breath, then looked up at her husband 
as if for his approval of this woman who had just left them. 

“ You see I’m quite proud that she wants to paint me,” 
she said. 

“ I should think you would be,” was the response. “ As 
for me, I should be set up entirely out of reach of common 
mortals if she wanted to paint me. Perhaps mine isn’t the 
kind of beauty that takes her fancy; and perhaps she 
doesn’t paint men.” 

Moore stroked his beard and laughed. He also was in 
what he would have called in another “ dangerously good 
spirits.” He could not understand it in the least. 

Later, when he woke in the night and lay with wide-open 


WITH MRS. DARRAH 


22 


eyes, apparently not thinking of anything, there suddenly 
sprang at him the words : 

“ Oh, I wish she cared for the truth !” 

Why should those words have come to him now when he 
had been so happy a few hours before ? And then there 
rose in his mind a vivid picture of Salome’s face as it had 
been that time when he and she were walking on the Flori- 
da sands, and she had told him that he could not respect 
her. Respect her ? He must respect her. He must. 

He lay utterly still, his hands clinched, a perspiration 
coming on his forehead. How was he going to know when 
she was telling him the truth ? How could he expect her 
to tell him the truth always ? And what should he do if 
he discovered another falsehood ? Now and then, as time 
went on, should he detect her in a lie } He shuddered. 
Even a man whose life is not upon as high a plane as 
Moore strove that his should be, could not help a strong 
repulsion at the thought that his wife was not truthful. 
Whatever he is himself, a man desires that his wife shall 
be upright. 

It is not when one wakes in the darkness, that one has 
hopeful views of any trouble or perplexity. 

Moore’s thoughts ran on in painful confusion until at 
last he fell asleep again. He was surprised that in the 
morning he should be able to regard that hour of darkness 
almost as if it had been a dream. Only as the days went 
by, there were moments when it seemed as if that hour had 
left a shadow. But as yet he could easily escape the shad- 
ow. It could hardly come when Salome was near him, and 
he could turn and look in her face. 


XIV 


PORTRAIT PAINTING 

Salome had been three times to sit for her portrait, but 
it had happened that her husband had not been able to 
accompany her until this fourth visit, as he had been called 
away on business, which had detained him more than a 
week. 

It was never difficult of late for Salome to kill time, even 
though Moore were away. How could time lag since, wher- 
ever he was, Moore’s love was hers } She would write at 
odd moments every day to him, and the writing brought 
him near. She wrote a thousand nothings, and she uncon- 
sciously infused into these nothings so much of herself and 
her love that Moore, reading these letters hundreds of miles 
away, felt his heart glow with a happiness that was yet new 
enough and perfect enough to seem utterly mysterious — to 
seem, indeed, as if it were a miraculous gift from heaven. 

Perfect ? Well, since these two were human there must 
be some flaw. But the young man was thus far able to 
thrust from him the greater part of the time any remem- 
brance of a flaw. Occasionally he would think that he 
must bear with Salome’s faults, as she would have to bear 
with his. And when he decided thus, the after -thought 
would invariably present itself : the deep longing that this 
failing might have been almost any other failing. He often 
recalled Mrs. Gerry’s assertion that “ truth was the founda- 
tion of everything.” 

At such times, as the body writhes in pain, so Moore’s 
soul would writhe. Still he was young and profoundly in 
love, and he had great faith nearly always in his power to 
influence Salome. 


PORTRAIT PAINTING 


223 


On the morning of his return his mind was very far from 
misgivings of any kind. Salome was not expecting him until 
the evening ; she was just starting for Mrs. Bradford’s stu- 
dio, and she only waited for her husband to make himself 
presentable after his journey, so that he might accompany 
' her. Then the two set forth. The March winds swept 
fiercely over the Common, and people hurried on with bent 
heads and red faces. Salome’s furs rose high about her 
neck, and framed her head as in a picture. The clear glow 
of her eyes was beautiful to see. Looking into those eyes, 
one would say the owner of them must be an incarnation 
of truth. 

“ I’ve been dreaming and dreaming since you’ve been 
away,” she was saying as they reached Boylston Street and 
were a little sheltered from the breeze, “ and always the 
same dream ; that is, almost the same. It wasn’t a bad 
dream, only somehow I became so tired of it, and I wanted 
you to assure me that it didn’t mean anything. I had a 
great mind to tell it to Mrs. Bradford, but I didn’t quite 
dare, and then when she gets that palette on her thumb I’m 
not really sure that she will hear me if I do say anything.” 

“ Oh, is she like that ?” asked Moore, who did not think 
much of the dream, and who had thought curiously of Mrs. 
Bradford. 

“ You need not say ‘ like that ’ in such a tone,” was the 
retort. “ What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean I hope she is something more than a machine 
that can paint,” said Moore. “Now, do you really sup- 
pose,” in a confidential tone, “ that your artist-woman loves 
her husband ? You see,” with a laugh, “ that’s my test. I 
shall not approve of her if she is—” 

“ You just wait,” interrupted Salome. “ If, when you see 
her, you think that kind of a woman would marry without 
love, why, you ask her.” 

“No doubt I shall ask her,” answered Moore, “and no 
doubt she will confide in me. But here we are.” 

The two were ushered directly into the little room in 


224 


OUT OF STEP 


the rear, which was the studio. The artist was alone, and 
she came forward to greet her visitors. She held Salome’s 
hand a moment longer than was necessary for mere greet- 
ing; then her glance was given to the tall figure be- 
hind. 

“ So you have brought him,” she said to Salome, “ and I 
have known all along that he will be my most arbitrary 
critic.” 

“ I wanted Mr. Moore to know you,” said Salome, in her 
happy voice. “ He says I’ve been so vain since you began 
to paint my portrait that I am quite insufferable.” 

Moore, glancing at the mistress of the studio as he bowled 
to her, met her eyes, and instantly felt at his best. His 
spirits had been high as he had walked along, gayly breast- 
ing the buffeting wind with his wife by his side ; now they 
were higher still. He was immediately conscious of a de- 
cided gratitude that his wife should know such a woman as 
this. He did not quite understand why she seemed to him 
any more than a quiet, well-bred woman, with a refined and 
extremely suggestive face. 

“ I’m glad you have come, Mr. Moore,” said Mrs. Brad- 
ford, with unaffected warmth. “ And now you will tell me 
precisely what you think of this.” 

As she finished speaking she walked towards the easel. 
Moore followed, having, as he afterwards said, his own ideas 
as to what women could do at portrait painting. 

His face kindled instantly in a way that invariably made 
the face of any one looking at him kindle also. Mrs. Brad- 
ford was cheered by this look, and her smile grew still 
more intimate and cordial. 

“ I had no idea it would be like this,” he exclaimed. 

Perhaps one reason why people found Moore so likable 
was that he let his heart speak out when his heart held no 
bitterness. 

Mrs. Bradford flushed with pleasure. 

“ Like what ?” she asked. “ I hope it is like Mrs. Moore.” 

“Yes, yes ; it is,” he answered. 


PORTRAIT PAINTING 225 

He glanced swiftly and radiantly at Salome, then back to 
the canvas. 

“ When it is done, do you know what I am going to call 
it?” 

As the artist put this question to Moore she took a brush, 
touched It to her palette, advanced and drew the brush 
softly along a part of the background. 

The portrait was only a head, the bust shading off indef- 
initely. There were absolutely no adjuncts to distract at- 
tention or to modify judgment. 

“ Call it ?” said Moore, absently. He was gazing with 
his soul in his face at the canvas. 

Mrs. Bradford liked him more and more. 

“ I could imagine that a man or woman in trouble might 
go to him,” she was thinking. “The mere going to him 
would be a help ; the mere being in contact with that cour- 
teous, sweet strength.” 

“ Yes,” she repeated ; “ if you will give me a name bet- 
ter than the one I have chosen I will take your name for 
this.” 

She gazed at the head contemplatively. 

“ It is the face of a happy woman,” said Moore, in a low 
voice. 

“ That is why I shall call it ‘ Happiness,’ ” answered Mrs. 
Bradford. 

She turned towards Salome, who was somewhat behind 
the two. 

“ Do I really and truly look like that ?” 

As she put the question, Salome seemed to shrink back 
still more. 

“ I don’t mean because it’s beautiful, you know,” she 
went on, hastily, “ for it isn’t that. I mean — ” she hesi- 
tated, then her eyes brightened in a way they had, and 
which had a still more striking effect because she did not 
blush. “It is because,” still more rapidly, “this face is 
as if heaven itself might envy the original of it.” 

As Salome spoke thus, Moore turned towards her with 
15 


226 


OUT OF STEP 


an impetuous movement, but he instantly restrained him- 
self, and resumed his study of the portrait. 

Mrs. Bradford was slightly aloof from the two. She was 
gazing at Salome, and in her gaze was something of that 
pathetic prevision which is so frequently awakened by the 
sight of happiness. 

“ Mrs. Moore is too often in the superlative degree,” now 
said Moore, glancing at his hostess, and trying to speak 
deprecatingly. 

“ And is it only the positive degree that you care for in 
her ?” asked Mrs. Bradford. “ It is those who know about 
the superlative who get loved the most and who love the 
most.” 

She spoke as if she were stating a simple fact. 

“ But do you never think,” responded Moore, “ of what 
some one has said, that there’s only just so much happiness 
for every one in this world ; and that you are often allowed 
a choice, as if your life were bread and happiness were 
butter? You can spread the butter very thin, and have a 
semblance of delight right along, or you can do just the 
other way, and have nothing save butterless crusts after a 
while.” 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Bradford, “ I often think of that ; but 
temperament generally forbids freedom of choice.” 

No one made any reply to this response, and the three 
stood in silence looking at the canvas. At last the artist 
said, addressing Moore : 

“ I want to ask you if you think I have caught what I 
call the Puritan look of the face ? That has been the puz- 
zling thing all the time. I think that is what drew my 
attention at the very first ; that doesn’t usually accompany 
the — well, I will call it the other expression. Mrs. Moore,” 
smiling at Salome, “ you must pardon me if I discuss you 
now as if you were a model. But you see your husband’s 
opinion must be very valuable, and I am more interested 
in this portrait than in anything I’ve undertaken for a 
long time. I can hardly thank you enough for the oppor- 


PORTRAIT PAINTING 


227 


tunity to try to put you on canvas. It’s more than painting. 
It’s a study in psychology. Now please don’t object to be- 
ing made a study in psychology.” 

There was such a warm tone in Mrs. Bradford’s voice that 
Salome could not quite make up her mind to put her objec- 
tion in words. Nevertheless, she felt that objection. Her 
pride and pleasure in the portrait were now somewhat mixed 
with something which she could not well define. 

Why did some people think they must study her } And 
what was there strange in her face ? There was Mrs. Dar- 
rah with her note-book, and here was Mrs. Bradford with 
her paint and brushes. She could not understand. Of 
course, she was often an enigma to herself. She supposed 
that men and women were always enigmas to themselves ; 
but then others seemed to be able to conceal the fact. 

Mrs. Bradford was watching her ; she came to her side, 
and put her hand on Salome’s arm. 

“ Forgive me,” she said, “ but do you dislike to have me 
go on with the portrait.^ I can’t help studying you as I 
paint it. Do you object ?” 

Moore was still standing in front of the easel and exam- 
ining the picture. Now he said, remonstrantly : 

“ Salome, I want this portrait, if I can persuade Mrs. 
Bradford to let me have it. I beg you won’t take up any 
freak about it. Besides,” breaking into a slight laugh, “if 
you have the face of a Puritan and that of a woman of the 
tropics all in one, what can you expect but that some one 
will want to find out your secret?” 

“But I have no secret — I have no secret,” protested 
Salome, with more warmth than was quite proper to display 
before one whom she knew so little as she knew her hostess. 

Moore laughed again, but there was nothing irritating in 
his laugh or in his manner as he turned to his wife. 

“ You have a secret all the same, though you don't know 
you have one,” he said, “ and I’m going to encourage Mrs. 
Bradford to paint it ; and then perhaps I shall be able to 
understand it myself.” 


228 


OUT OF STEP 


Mrs. Bradford had approached the canvas, and was again 
touching it here and there with her brush. 

“ You know,” she said now, “ there is a great deal of talk 
about our dual nature. It’s all very mysterious. I suppose 
Mrs. Moore has the dual nature a* little more visible than 
the rest of us.” 

“And I imagine,” said Salome, with some eagerness, 
“that, as we live on, one of these natures grows stronger, 
and the other grows weaker. Now I — ” here she paused, 
her face becoming more vivid and her eyes deepening. She 
was afraid she was getting too egotistic. 

“ Now you — ” repeated Mrs. Bradford in a way that im- 
pelled Salome to go on, with her gaze fixed on the woman 
near her, to whom she seemed to be making a confession. 
She was drawn by the interest in the elder woman’s coun- 
tenance. 

“ I was only going to say that I seem to be leaving the 
Puritan behind me. It seems to be years behind me. I 
can hardly remember that time when I was continually ask- 
ing if this or that were right. I don’t think about right very 
often now. I’m just happy, you see. Mrs. Bradford, do 
you think happiness tends to make one morally weak ? But, 
then, I don’t care much whether I’m morally weak or not. 
Please don’t be shocked. But you will not be, I know. To 
be happy, with me, has something of the effect that a South- 
ern scene has. I only want to live, just to live. Oh, Mrs. 
Bradford, now you are studying me. You are putting some- 
thing more in the portrait. You see,” to Moore, “ I say just 
what comes to me. Anyway, I seem to be doing that 
now. But I don’t talk in this way every time I come, 
do I ?” 

The artist said “ No,” absently. She was at work. 

Moore stepped away and began to examine some of the 
bronzes and pictures which were here and there about the 
room. 

Salome took the seat it had been her habit to occupy, and 
the work began in earnest. 


PORTRAIT PAINTING 


229 


Presently Moore left the two women, saying he would re- 
turn in a couple of hours. 

At the best, it finally becomes wearisome to sit still and be 
looked at. But Mrs. Bradford, after a half-hour of silence, 
began to talk as she painted. 

She did not tell Salome that it was the puritanical ex- 
pression she now wished to evoke. But she had not stud- 
ied her subject for several mornings without having arrived 
at some slight knowledge. 

She now began to speak of Salome’s mother. She asked 
if Mrs. Gerry came often to the city. 

“ Oh no ; she has only been here once. Mr. Moore 
thought I was going to have a fever, and she came right in 
and stayed until I was better. I go to see her every week. 
I will never be really separated from my mother.” 

“ I am so interested in her.” Mrs. Bradford said these 
words with so much feeling that Salome’s eyes filled. “ She 
is lonesome without you,” added Mrs. Bradford. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Can you not persuade her to come, and to come here 
with you ?” 

“ Oh, do you mean it .?” 

“ Certainly. I usually mean the thing I say.” 

“ Do you ?” 

There was something in Salome’s voice as she pronounced 
those two words that made Mrs. Bradford hold her brush 
suspended in her hand. She gazed at her guest with some- 
thing more than mere interrogation. 

Salome seemed to be going to say something other than 
what she did say, which was only : 

“ People are so different about that.” 

“ Yes, I know,” was the response. “ But I never could 
endure even the little conventional lies which we hear every 
day. Though they don’t deceive any one.” 

“ I suppose it is considered very wrong to deceive people, 
even for their own happiness,” now said Salome. 

She was under the influence of a wish to be frank with 


230 


OUT OF STEP 


Mrs. Bradford. It was always such a relief to meet any one 
like her. 

“I think it’s wrong,” was the quiet response. 

“ Yes, I suppose so. I wonder why it is thought so much 
more wrong than to break some of the other command- 
ments ?” 

“ Some things are what you might call more fundamental 
than others, perhaps.” 

“ That must be it,” thoughtfully. “ Everybody seems to 
think so. I wonder why ?” again. 

Mrs. Bradford looked at her. 

“You wonder why?” in undisguised surprise. 

“Oh,” returned Salome, laughing, “I’m only talking to 
see what I can say, as we used to do when we were chil- 
dren.” 

Having spoken thus there was silence agfin. Salome’s 
thoughts were not as pleasant as usual, and Mrs. Brad- 
ford immediately discovered this fact. She began to work 
.more slowly and hesitatingly; at last she laid down her 
brush. 

“ My inspiration seems to be gone,” she said. “ I cannot 
paint you if you are not happy. Something troubles you.” 

Mrs. Bradford sat down in a chair near her companion. 
Without speaking she was yet able to make her guest aware 
of a warm sympathy and interest. 

Salome remained for a few moments without speaking, 
' her eyes drooped. At last she looked up. 

“Of late I don’t very often look into the future,” she 
said ; “ it is enough to live in the present. But since we 
have been talking just now I’ve been thinking — Mrs. Brad- 
ford will you think it very strange indeed if I say what is in 
my mind? You are sure you will not? You know some- 
times we can say to a stranger who is kind and in sympa- 
thy what we cannot say to one nearer ?” 

Salome’s eyes, with a pleading eagerness in them, were 
now fixed upon Mrs. Bradford’s face — without waiting for 
any reply she went on : 


PORTRAIT PAINTING 


231 


“ I know it’s one of the most foolish things in the world, 
but it just came over me for the first time since my marriage 
that it’s only for a little while I can make my husband hap- 
py — don’t interrupt me, please. I used to think that way for 
a long time before we were married, but you see I couldn’t 
hold out, though I thought I was convinced that I ought 
to hold out. I’m not going to tell you about that ; I don’t 
think I could tell any one. But do you know what has come 
into my mind just now ? Ought I to tell you ?” 

“ I think I shall understand,” was the reply ; “ but do as 
you feel.” 

“ It’s a strange thing to say, but the thought clutched me 
as if it were an unrelenting hand that my husband should 
have married — oh, don’t be shocked ! — he should have mar- 
ried a woman like you. Then I could look forward to his 
future with assurance.” 

Mrs. Bradford smiled as she bent forward towards her 
companion. 

“You must be very tired,” she said, “or,” with another 
smile, “ perhaps you are dyspeptic ?” 

“ No, no, I’m not tired, and I’m perfectly well, and I wish 
I was another kind of a woman !” 

Here Salome covered her face with her hands. She did 
not sob, however, but sat perfectly still. 

Mrs. Bradford hesitated befgre she said, more lightly 
than she felt : 

“ You seem to be the kind of a woman whom Mr. Moore 
loves.” 

“ Oh yes, I know that,” with her face still covered ; then 
suddenly looking up, “but don’t you suppose I can some- 
how become all that you call Puritan ? If I could get to be 
all Puritan I’m sure everything would be right. I don’t 
care, only for mother and Randolph. I think they would 
like to have me that way.” 

Mrs. Bradford could only understand in a general man- 
ner. But she did understand that the two natures which 
showed themselves in Mrs. Moore’s face must be at odds 


232 


OUT OF STEP 


with each other, unless one so far predominated as to hold 
possession almost undisputedly ; and this, she imagined, 
was the case. She now said that if Mrs. Moore’s mother 
and husband wanted her to be a certain way — but when she 
had begun the sentence its inadequacy appeared so glaring 
to her that she did not finish it. But Salome understood 
her, for she replied, immediately : 

“Oh, I can’t, I can’t. There’s something in me that 
makes me be just myself ; and I have to see things just as 
I do see them. I could cut off a hand, or shoot myself, at 
least I think I could, for these two people I love, but I 
can’t have the kind of conscience they have.” 

Salome rose and went and looked at the portrait. But 
she did not seem to see it. 

“You must think Tm a very strange person to talk like 
this to you,” she said, as if addressing the portrait, “ but I 
felt somehow, all at once, as if I must say what I’ve said. 
It came over me, you know, and now I shall not dwell on it 
at all. L never dwell on unpleasant things nowadays. They 
drop right off of me.” She turned towards Mrs. Bradford. 
“ I shall be happy again, and you may go on painting me 
to-morrow.” 

And Mrs. Bradford did go on for some days more, giving 
herself up to her work in the mornings with an enthusiasm 
that did not in the least abate. 

Salome noticed that the painter often led the talk to Sa- 
lome’s mother. At last, when the portrait seemed to be 
nearly done, Mrs. Bradford laid down her brushes and mahl- 
stick with something like discouragement. 

“ What is the matter ?” asked Salome. “ Is it done } And 
is it really as happy as ever ?” 

She left her chair to see if she could decide for herself. 

“It’s just as happy,” she exclaimed, “and somehow I 
like it better. There’s more in it. But then perhaps there’s 
more in it than there is in my face really. Do you think 
there is ? I shouldn’t like that.” 

Mrs. Bradford did not seem in good spirits. She kept 


PORTRAIT PAINTING 


233 


Stepping here and there that she might look at her work in 
different lights. 

“ Something is the matter with it,” she said. “And until 
I find out what I must not touch it.” 

Salome tried to discover for herself what these words 
meant, but she could not. She did not dare to say that she 
thought another touch would spoil the portrait. But then, 
she reflected, she could not be a good judge of her own 
portrait. 

It was while they were standing by the easel and Mrs. 
Bradford was frowning slightly as she looked, that a servant 
came in with two cards. 

Mrs. Bradford took them. 

“ I forgot they were to come this morning,” she said, as 
if to herself. “ Show them here,” to the servant. 

Salome walked to where her cloak and bonnet lay on a 
couch. She had just thrown her cloak over her shoulders 
when the sound of a voice made her pause. Her face grew 
pale, then resolute. 

What she was saying to herself was : 

“ I think I might have had a little more time before see- 
ing her.” 

Having thought this, with her bonnet in her hand, she 
faced about and waited as Mrs. Darrah and her niece en- 
tered the studio. 

Mrs. Darrah was animated. She went quickly to her 
hostess, saying that Mrs. Bradford might rely upon it that 
her kindness in Allowing them to come was appreciated. 

“ I took the liberty to bring my niece. Miss Nunally, Mrs. 
Bradford. I hope it was not too much of a liberty. But 
she knows a great deal about art. Indeed, there are a good 
many things that she knows about, as you will soon dis- 
cover. Portia, make your bow to Mrs. Bradford.” 

Portia came forward in her most pleasing way. She 
responded modestly to the greeting given to her. Then she 
walked to the easel and stood before it in silence. She was 
joined by her aunt, who said it was particularly this she had 


234 


OUT OF STEP 


come to see. She knew the moment she saw Mrs. Moore 
this season that Mrs. Bradford was the only artist, man or 
woman, who could do this portrait. 

“ Mrs. Moore is here,” said Mrs. Bradford. 

Portia had known this from the instant of her entering. 
She had seen Salome, and only Salome, it seemed to her, 
though the latter had stood withdrawn and half screened 
by a huge torso. 

“ Oh, is she V’ 

Mrs. Darrah turned about quickly, scenting some dra- 
matic scene and anxious to take it in fully. 

But there was no scene at all. Salome advanced im- 
mediately and shook hands with the new-comers. She 
asked Portia if she had just left Florida — and was it not 
early in the season to come away from the South.? As for 
her, she thought the spring winds here in Boston very 
trying. 

Yes, Portia had arrived only the night before. The 
friends with whom she had been staying had suddenly re- 
solved to come home. 

“ And of course I could not remain, a poor unchaper- 
oned thing, down there in a hotel ” — finishing her explana- 
tion thus, the girl laughed. Then she turned away, glanced 
again at the portrait, and remarked in an agreeable and 
superficial voice that one whom Mrs. Bradford consented 
to paint ought to feel flattered. In a moment she resumed : 

“ We stopped over a day in New York, and I had the 
pleasure of meeting Mr. Moore. Odd, wasn’t it ? We hap- 
pened to be in at Delmonico’s for lunch, and he walked 
up to our table. I congratulated him that his uncle had 
died without changing his will. Even in a marriage for 
love it is not unpleasant to have plenty of money. And 
then if you have an uncle who has money, it is nice to 
have him die when he can do the most good by dying. 
Uncles are not often sufficiently thoughtful about dying in 
time.” And Portia strolled off down the room to look at 
sketches and pictures. 


PORTRAIT PAINTING 


235 


After having listened to a few words from Mrs. Darrah, 
Salome hastened out into the street. She was thinking 
that Portia looked much older, that her face had hardened 
in some way ; still, the subtle something that made Portia 
at will a fascinating woman remained. 

When Mrs. Darrah and her niece left the studio and 
entered the carriage in waiting for them Portia began to 
talk immediately of the artist. She talked so persistently 
of her and her work that Mrs. Darrah exclaimed : 

“ Portia, I wish you wouldn’t chatter so ! You make my 
head spin ; and I’m trying to describe that portrait for my 
next chapter.” 

“ Are you still using Salome ?” asked the girl. Then she 
shrugged her shoulders. “ How disgusting it is to see any 
one as happy as she is ! But there’s something the matter 
with the portrait. It has too much conscience in it now — 
it is more like what Salome was in Florida at the very 
first, when you know she was just a conscience walking 
about in incipient phthisis. She recovered from her con- 
science sooner even than she did from her phthisis. She 
hasn’t much of it left now. Oh, how happy she looks !” 
Here the speaker but half repressed a shudder. “ If I had 
a paint-brush in my hand and knew how to use it, I would 
make that a portrait of a kind of odalisque and have done 
with it. It’s a New England face, but it isn’t a New Eng- 
land spirit. How is one going to manage such a subject as 
that ?” 

“ I thought Mrs. Bradford’s success quite phenomenal,” 
remarked Mrs. Darrah. 

“ So it is. But you see she is dissatisfied with her work. 
She will change it. I should like to see what she does 
with it.” 

It was so true that the artist was dissatisfied that she 
could not get the portrait out of her mind. While Salome 
had been talking this last time there had been that in her 
face which made Mrs. Bradford put in a few touches which 
altered the expression. Now, left alone with the picture. 


236 


OUT OF STEP 


the maker of it walked restlessly here and there, trying to 
get to a point from which she could view it with some satis- 
faction. It now seemed to her simply a New England 
face, spiritual, and with a hint of ardor in it. She had seen 
such faces before. But she knew very well that she had 
never seen a face like Salome’s before. 

She almost resolved not to touch it for some days ; but 
the next day she was before it again, and the next, although 
Salome was not to have another sitting until the following 
week. 

As she stood studying absorbedly, she would make a 
touch here and there, then draw back to note the effect. 
At last the cloud of doubt and bewilderment left her 
mind. She laid down her brushes and pressed her hands 
together. 

“ That is really it,” she exclaimed with exultation. 

While she was thus contemplating her work a servant 
came and said that a person who expected to meet Mrs. 
Moore was in the reception-room. Should he show her to 
the studio ? 

Anybody connected with Mrs. Moore was interesting to 
Mrs. Bradford, so she said yes, and presently a middle- 
aged woman appeared under the portiere which the servant 
held aside. 

This woman was dressed in black of the best material, 
but with no “style” whatever in her appearance. She hesi- 
tated, not in confusion, however. 

“ I thought I should find my daughter here,” she said. 

Mrs. Bradford hastened forward, her face lighting. She 
held out her hand. 

“I knew you were her mother,” she responded, with 
some eagerness. “ I am so glad to see you.” 

Mrs. Gerry’s controlled countenance gave way somewhat. 
She said to herself, “ I wish this woman was Salome’s 
friend.” 

An arm-chair was pulled forward and the guest was seated 
in it. 


PORTRAIT PAINTING 237 

“ My daughter asked me to meet her here at this time,” 
she said. “ She wanted me to see the portrait.” 

“Yes, yes,” replied Mrs. Bradford, still more eagerly than 
she usually spoke. “ I have so much wished you would 
come.” She stooped, gently took Mrs. Gerry’s hand, and 
led her in front of the easel. As she stood there with her 
she retained the hand in a warm clasp. 

The mother’s eyes gave one long look at the painted 
face, then they turned away. They seemed to be seeking 
some object upon which they could rest. But they came 
back again. She made an effort, and stood more erectly, 
as if thus the better to endure something. 

After a moment she said that she believed she would sit 
down ; she found that she was tired. She wasn’t used to 
b,eing round in a city, and she became more tired than if 
she were at home and at work. 

Mrs. Bradford drew the chair yet nearer, and sat down 
by her companion. 

Presently Mrs. Gerry seemed to think that she must speak. 

“ Of course,” she said, “ you never could have seen his 
likeness ; I don’t think he ever had any likeness, either.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” was the response. 

“ I hope you’ll excuse me,” returned Mrs. Gerry, care- 
fully. “ But I was so surprised when I looked at your 
painting of my daughter.” 

“ Isn’t it like her, then ?” 

Mrs. Gerry now fixed her eyes on her companion as if in 
restrained but still intense examination. Then she seemed 
to relax through her whole frame. 

“ Like her ?” she said in a whisper. “ It is a picture of 
her soul. But how strange it is to talk like this ! I hope 
you will forgive me. She has never resembled my grand- 
father in the least in looks, but there she does resemble 
him — there she might be his own child. How did you find 
her out ? What shall I do if she is not happy ? And how 
can she be happy for long ? But if we will only do right, it 
is not necessary to be happy.” 


OUT OF STEP 


238 

Here Mrs. Gerry stopped suddenly and made an attempt 
to resume her ordinary manner. She had been greatly 
startled, but even then she would not have yielded to her 
surprise if there had not been something in Mrs. Bradford’s 
manner which made her feel as if there were no need of 
concealment with her. tn a moment she asked ; 

“ Has Mr. Moore seen this ?” 

“ Not as it is now,” was the reply. 


XV 


IN THE STUDIO 

Mrs. Gerry remained silent before the easel. She ap- 
peared to be looking at the picture resolutely. But she 
knew that it would be difficult to withdraw her eyes from 
it. She was afraid. Into her strong nature had penetrated 
a strange fear of which she could not yet divest herself. It 
seemed to her like a miracle that a stranger had been able 
to dive into her daughter’s nature, and then to put that nat- 
ure upon canvas. 

Mrs. Bradford must be possessed of wonderful gifts. 
What Mrs. Gerry would have hidden from all the world 
this woman’s mind had openly displayed. But what a 
drawing, holding power the picture had ! How innocent 
it looked ! And yet there was a hint of possibilities in it. 
Mrs. Gerry had an impulse to shield Salome from some- 
thing which the portrait suggested. 

“ I am very sorry this has been done,” she said, with an 
earnestness that had something of austerity in it. 

“You must blame me,” Mrs. Bradford hastened to say. 
“I asked permission, and Mrs. Moore was so kind as to 
grant it. I wish you would not feel badly about it. You 
see the child looked so happy ; it was so love4y to meet 
such a person! Do you think I did wrong?” and the 
speaker could not help adding, “ and do you really think 
I have succeeded ?” 

“ Succeeded ? Oh yes. I wish you had not. I wish 
you had not thought of this thing. I — I can’t get over it.” 

Mrs. Gerry, with marked decision of manner, walked away 
from the easel, and sat down with her back to it. She fold- 


240 


OUT OF STEP 


ed her hands in her lap, and looked straight ahead of her. 
She was already thinking that she had said too much — that 
she had displayed too much feeling. 

Her hostess remained for a moment by the picture, but 
she glanced at her guest sitting there. Mrs. Bradford was 
asking herself why she was so unusually interested. Per- 
haps it was partly because her own girlhood was strongly 
recalled by something in Mrs. Gerry’s aspect and manner. 
The low-ceiled rooms, the fields, the hills, the sky, the dear 
desolation of the country in fall and winter, all came back 
to the artist’s memory with a distinctness which made her 
heart beat more swiftly. 

She was not given to too much demonstration, but just 
now she was tempted to go to Mrs. Gerry, to kneel by her 
side and put her arms about her. She was dimly aware 
that there must be something stirring and dramatic in the 
history of that girl whose portrait she had just painted. 
She wondered if she should ever know that history. It did 
not appear, however, that Mrs. Moore knew much of the 
world, or had passed through many different experiences ; 
there was a touching freshness in the face and the outlook 
of that face. 

What was it ? 

Impelled by an increasing interest, Mrs. Bradford, rather 
wondering at herself, crossed the floor to Mrs. Gerry’s side 
and placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder. 

“ Don’t be so troubled !” she said, softly. 

Mrs. Gerry looked up quickly. The sympathy and the 
trustworthiness in the face bending down to her seemed 
to weaken, her, as one appears to weaken when a ten- 
sion is relaxed. But she tried instantly to brace herself 
again. 

“ I guess, perhaps. I’m one that borrows trouble,” she 
said. “ I don’t know why I should feel like talking some 
to you, when you are a stranger. I haven’t been quite well 
for a week or two, and I’ve slept poorly and dreamed so 
much. That’s why I decided to come in and see Salome. 


IN THE STUDIO 


241 


I began to worry about her more than common. But this 
must be very uninteresting to you.” 

Mrs. Gerry opened a little bag she carried, drew her hand- 
kerchief from it, and wiped her lips carefully, keeping the 
handkerchief in its fold. 

“On the contrary,” responded Mrs. Bradford, emphati- 
cally, “it is very interesting to me. And don’t you know 
one is often tempted to speak freely to a stranger who is in 
sympathy ?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Gerry, looking up, “that must be so.” 

She said nothing more, though her companion waited 
expectantly for a moment. Then Mrs. Bradford spoke 
again ; 

“ I cannot imagine why you should worry about your 
daughter, unless it be that too much happiness always 
makes one anxious.” 

Mrs. Gerry put her hands, in their black kid gloves, over 
the little bag. There was some wistfulness in her eyes as 
she raised them. 

“ I don’t know what it is,” she said, going back to a for- 
mer thought, “that makes me want to talk with you. I 
don’t have anybody to talk to, anyway. I never thought I 
was one of the kind that confided much in folks.” 

A sudden pang came to the heart of the younger woman. 
She could not speak immediately. But in a moment she 
said : 

“ Do you care to have me tell you that I am sure it is 
safe, as safe as for you to tell yourself, to talk to me, if you 
feel to do so ?” 

She was conscious of a certain electric stir in the mental 
atmosphere that surrounded them. The other did not 
speak for a time, and Mrs. Bradford kept silence. She 
drew a chair near and sat down. She had a wish to be 
close to her guest. Curiously, the years between her own 
life in the country and the present time seemed to roll away, 
leaving her a girl at the farm-house, with her heart full of 
eager, unformed ambitions and enthusiasms. 

16 


OUT OF STEP 



“ I want to ask you,” now said Mrs. Gerry, “ if my daugh- 
ter has talked much of herself to you. She is rather strange 
about that; sometimes she is so frank that she frightens 
me. She doesn’t see things as I do. I’ve been afraid that 
I didn’t bring her up right. Has she talked much to you 
— about herself, I mean ?” 

“No.” 

The mother was visibly relieved. 

“ She has — well, she has peculiar ideas,” she said, after a 
little silence. Then, with some abruptness, “ Mrs. Brad- 
ford, how much do you believe in heredity ?” 

The other did not reply immediately. She hardly knew 
what to say. She saw that the subject was of intense in- 
terest to her companion. At last she answered, rather un- 
satisfactorily, that she believed a great deal in it. 

“ But, of course,” said Mrs. Gerry, quickly, “ I suppose 
you don’t think anything short of insanity can take away 
our responsibility? We are put here to choose, you know. 
We choose just as we please ; and we have to suffer the 
consequences. One choice often changes our lives, puts 
us in another road, you know. I hope you’ll excuse me, 
but I’ve thought and thought until sometimes it almost 
seems as if I couldn’t think any more. Only I keep right 
on.” 

“You ought not to be so much alone,” was the response. 
And then Mrs. Bradford continued rather hurriedly, “You 
are worried because your daughter inherits something you 
don’t like from some ancestor of whom you do not approve. 
Yes, I understand. And you think if you had brought her 
up right you might have eradicated some tendencies. Now 
I’m sure you brought her up right, so far as faith and honor 
and integrity are concerned. I’m sure of it. But she has 
some strain of — of, what shall I call it ? — the tropics, the lax- 
ness which goes with that strain sometimes. You couldn’t 
eradicate that, and you don’t understand that any more 
than you understand Greek. But there it is. And it’s mixed 
up with the New England part of her nature. And, you see. 


IN THE STUDIO 


243 


I’m frank — I think the Southern warmth and glow, and 
may I say conscienceless part of her, are fast getting the 
supremacy. 

“ Don’t think she has talked to me, but I have watched 
her face with an interest so keen that I cannot describe it 
to you. If you sometimes painted portraits, Mrs. Gerry, 
you would know how much may be learned from the study 
of a face. And let me tell you that I cannot imagine how 
any one can be with your daughter without loving her. She 
has, in a phenomenal degree, that utterly mysterious some- 
thing which wins love. It is something that is not depend- 
ent upon character, and which nobody has yet been able 
to analyze. People put names to the quality, but the names 
amount to nothing. 

“ Am I giving you quite a lecture, Mrs. Gerry ? Pardon 
me, then. I don’t think I can make you know what a 
hold Mrs. Moore has obtained over my heart and my im- 
agination. I don’t know what it is ; she seizes you, she 
appeals to you. She makes you think of her continu- 
ally.” 

As Mrs. Bradford spoke thus, with an increasing warmth, 
Mrs. Gerry leaned towards her as if drawn by the intensity 
of her feeling. 

But when the speaker ceased the elder woman, instead 
of yielding to that feeling, drew herself up and away. She 
brought her pale face into greater control. She was al- 
ways fearing that she would not have herself entirely in 
hand. 

“ I know I think of her continually,” she said, “ but then,” 
with a smile, “ I’m her mother. I suppose I ought not to 
feel so hurt that you’ve found out that Salome isn’t one 
who hasn’t much conscience. But it does hurt me. It 
keeps hurting me.” 

She was not appealing in the least for sympathy. She 
was stating a. fact, and stating it in a way so that it should 
be plain. She had never before talked just like this to 
any human being. She had said a few words to her minis- 


244 


OUT OF STEP 


ter on that night when Salome was married. Now she was 
already beginning to fear that she had yielded to a weak- 
ness. It was surely a weakness not to keep troubles to 
yourself. Some people were always talking about their 
troubles. One became very weary of such people. Per- 
haps Mrs. Bradford, who seemed so kind, was weary of her 
now. 

“ Salome has told you of no events in her life ?” she asked, 
suddenly. 

No.” 

Mrs. Gerry rose. She was thinking that she had been 
weak and foolish to come to Boston because of dreams, ^t 
must be that she was really losing something of her self- 
control. 

“ I’m afraid Salome is detained somewhere,” she re- 
marked, “ and I’m keeping you. You have been very good.” 

“ You are not keeping me against my will,” was the re- 
ply. “ I’m so interested, Mrs. Gerry. You are not going ? 
Please stay until your daughter comes.” 

Mrs. Gerry stood hesitating. “ I don’t know as I ought,” 
she responded. “I’m glad I’ve seen you, Mrs. Bradford. 
It’s done me good. I’m trying not to worry.” 

The speaker gazed about the room. She avoided look- 
ing at the easel. But at last she said, deprecatingly, that 
she must be getting childish if she couldn’t look calmly at 
some colors put on canvas. 

Having spoken thus she advanced to a place in front of 
the portrait and stood absorbed before it. 

“ It hasn’t got my grandfather’s features, and it hasn’t got 
his color,” she said, “ but it has his very look — his very look. 
There’s no Ware and no Gerry in it.” 

“ Was your grandfather a bad man ?” 

Mrs. Bradford ventured to put this question. 

“ He hadn’t any principle,” replied Mrs. Gerry. “ He 
never did anything just because it was right. He didn’t 
care for right. He only cared to love and to be loved, and 
to have the weather warm and sunny.” 


IN THE STUDIO 


245 


“ People loved him ?’■ 

“ Oh yes. You had to love him. You couldn’t reason at 
all about it ; you had to love him.” 

Mrs. Bradford smiled. 

“ We don’t reason much as to love,” she said. 

“No; but it is a good thing when reason approves of a 
love.” 

Mrs. Gerry spoke with more emphasis than usual. Soon 
she turned to her companion. 

“ Salome tells me that you know Mrs. Darrah and Miss 
Nunally.” 

This seemed to the woman addressed to be an irrelevant 
remark, and she wondered at it. 

“ I have met them,” she answered. She thought that her 
companion looked at her with some wistfulness, but she 
could not help her any. 

“ Have you talked with them much ?” 

“ Oh no,” in great surprise. “ I have had no oppor- 
tunity.” 

“ But you will have, you certainly will have.” 

Here Mrs. Gerry’s perplexity was so plainly evident that 
Mrs. Bradford suddenly took her hand and held it closely. 

“ Does it annoy you that I may see those people ?” she 
asked. 

“ I can’t help things. I can’t help things,” said Mrs. 
Gerry, “ and what I can’t help I ought to leave ; I must 
just leave it all.” She fixed her eyes on Mrs. Bradford’s 
face. “ But I do wish that when you come to hear Mrs. 
Darrah — I don’t know what she will say — but when you 
come to hear her — won’t you judge as kindly as you can ? 
It’s so strange, but I care a great deal that you should 
judge kindly. And since you have been able to find out 
some of my child’s tendencies and to put them in her por- 
trait, perhaps you will consider all these things — ” 

Mrs. Gerry stopped abruptly. 

There was a sound at the door, and Salome entered. 

She came forward quickly, her presence shedding a kind 


246 


OUT OF STEP 


of glow in the studio. She gave her hand to Mrs. Brad- 
ford, then she said that she hoped her mother had not 
given her up, but that she had met Miss Nunally at Chand- 
ler’s, and Miss Nunally had insisted upon having help in 
selecting some kind of a spring wrap. 

“ As if I could help a woman like her !” concluded Sa- 
lome, with a laugh. “ And what does mother think of the 
portrait ? Why ” — her face changing — “ is there anything 
wrong ?” 

“ No, no,” Mrs. Bradford hastened to say, “ nothing. But 
your mother and I have had a little talk, and she owns that 
she is sorry I undertook to paint your portrait.” 

“ What ? Doesn’t she think it’s a likeness ?” in sur- 
prise. 

“ The likeness is too good,” said Mrs. Gerry. “ And now 
if you are ready, Salome, we will go. If your husband wants 
the portrait I’ve nothing to say. I guess I must be kind 
of old-fashioned, but somehow I don’t quite approve of 
having your real self put like that for anybody to look 
at.” 

Mrs. Gerry shook hands in a formal manner with Mrs. 
Bradford, and in answer to that lady’s remark that she 
would like to call upon her before she left town,' she re- 
plied that she had made up her mind to go out home that 
night. 

“ I hope I haven’t said anything out of the way,” she 
added, “ and I’m very glad I’ve seen you, Mrs. Bradford. 
You’ll think it’s foolish, but I feel better some way. Only,” 
scrupulously, “ I don’t think it’s a good plan to paint such 
a portrait as that.” 

Then mother and daughter went into the street and 
walked along almost in silence to the hotel. 

Mrs. Gerry took her few belongings. She refused to al- 
low her daughter to order a carriage. She said there was 
no need of such expense. They went in a trolley car to a 
corner near the station. Mrs. Gerry was always afraid in 
a trolley car, but she never mentioned that fear to any one. 


IN THE STUDIO 


247 


She was keenly aware of her ignorance concerning all 
that pertained to the motive power of these vehicles, and 
she was deeply thankful when she was on the sidewalk 
again. 

Biit the moment of parting with her daughter was one 
of anguish to her. She could not reason herself out of this 
suffering, try as she would. It was always so when she 
left Salome. She had to undergo that wrenching of the 
heart. For years she had tried to school herself against 
this, and all her endeavors had been fruitless. She often 
wondered at this and at her entire lack of success. She 
argued that she ought to be able to do what was reason- 
able. It was reasonable to feel only a moderate sorrow at 
leaving Salome, who was coming to her in a few days. 

But there was nothing moderate in this longing to take 
the child in her arms and hold her fast. 

“ I wish ’twas so you saw a good deal of Mrs. Bradford,” 
said Mrs. Gerry, as the two stood waiting for the gate to 
open that the passengers might take their places in the 
train. 

“ So do I,” was the answer. 

Then Salome put her hand down and found her mother’s 
hand, which was hanging by her side. 

“Are you worrying, mother?” in a tremulous voice. 
“You needn’t. I’m happy. You’ve no idea how good 
Randolph is !” 

Mrs. Gerry smiled. 

“ I know that ; I’m not worrying about Randolph’s not 
being good.” 

“It’s about me, then? But you needn’t. There goes 
the gate. I want to see you seated.” 

Salome lingered, standing in the aisle by her mother. 
She bent over her and assured her again that there was 
nothing to worry about. 

“ You ought to be content, since I’m so happy,” she re- 
peated. “ But I shall be happier when it is warm weather, 
and I am out in the country all the time with you.” 


248 


OUT OF STEP^ 


“ Salome,” said Mrs. Gerry, “ you think too much of 
happiness.” 

“ Oh no,” was the answer, with assurance ; “ I’m right 
about some things, mother. Let us think of the long, hot 
summer days which are coming, and that then we shall be 
together. And in the fall we shall go South. I like to 
dream about that.” 

“ Don’t stay here any longer,” said the elder woman, 
anxiously ; “ you’ll get carried off.” 

People were hurrying in. Salome kissed her mother. 
She left the car and stood outside by the window, looking 
up at her until the train started. Mrs. Gerry gazed at the 
slender figure with the radiant face until she could see it 
no longer. Then she sat upright, pressed her lips closely 
together, and maintained her position until she left the car 
at her own station. 

She was walking towards the public carriage which met 
this train to take passengers into her neighborhood, when 
some one close to her said : 

“ Good-evening, Mrs. Gerry, are you going home ?” 

It was Walter Redd. 

“ Is that you, Walter ? Yes, I’m going right home.” 

“ Do let me take you, then ; my horse and buggy are 
right here.” 

Mrs. Gerry would rather have gone by herself, but pres- 
ently she was sitting beside Redd in the buggy. 

“ I s’pose you’ve been to see Salome he remarked, 
after a few moments of silence. 

Redd never voluntarily spoke of Salome to any one save 
her mother. 

“Yes, I got worried somehow, and I couldn’t wait till 
the time for her to come out.” 

Mrs. Gerry was more outspoken with Walter than with 
any one whom she saw among her neighbors. 

“ I hope she’s well,” stiffly. 

“ Oh yes ; and happy, Walter.” Here a little hesitation. 
“ I’m sure we ought to be thankful that she’s so happy.” 


IN THE STUDIO 


249 


“ I know it. If it ’ll only last. But if it depends on 
Moore — ” 

Redd did not finish his sentence. He had never for- 
given Moore for what he believed was his desertion of 
Salome in Florida. 

“ Walter, you judge Moore all wrong. I can’t explain, 
but you do.” 

“You needn’t try to blind me about that fellow,” he re- 
plied, with a kind of cold savageness. “ I was taken in by 
him at first, but you can’t pull the wool over my eyes a 
second time. I know what he’s done. Didn’t he leave 
Salome ? Then didn’t he get engaged to that other girl ? 
Then didn’t he come back here and jilt the other girl, 
and so marry Salome out of hand ? It beats me that you 
can stand up for him.” 

“You don’t understand,” said Mrs. Gerry. 

“ No, that’s a fact, I don’t understand. But one thing 
I’m mighty sure of, and that is that the time ’ll come when 
she’ll see that man as he really is. He’s got something 
about him that makes folks like him, I know that very well. 
But I’m not going to talk of him any more to-night. I 
don’t know when I’ve mentioned him before.” 

When he helped Mrs. Gerry from the carriage in front of 
the dark little house on the ledge where she still lived, he 
stood by his horse instead of entering the buggy immedi- 
ately. 

“ Mrs. Gerry,” he said. Then he stopped. She waited 
beside him. “ Mrs. Gerry, 1 want you to think as well of 
me as you can. I’d rather you’d think well of me than any 
other woman I know, except one. Some way I ain’t my- 
self any more. I don’t care for anything, really — I didn’t 
know I was so weak.” 

“ Do try to overcome this.” 

Mrs. Gerry looked at the tall, strong figure beside her. 
She repeated her words with an almost tender emphasis. 

“ You needn’t think I’m whining round to other people,” 
he exclaimed, with some fierceness. “And I know you 


250 


OUT OF STEP 


mean well when you tell me to overcome it. Only I can’t 
do it.” 

“ Yes, you can ; but it will take time.” 

“ It ’ll take all my life. Is she coming out here for the 
summer 

“ Yes.” 

“Then I’ll clear out. I won’t run the risk of meeting 
her. That’s more than I could endure.” 

“ But your farm, Walter — ” 

“ Oh, I’ll let that ; I’ll do something. Well, good-night.” 

He put his foot on the step. Then he turned back. 

“ Shake hands with me, Mrs. Gerry. I’m always ever so 
much better for seeing you. You brace me up. Good-night.” 

He wrung the woman’s hand. He jumped into the car- 
riage and drove away. 

Mrs. Gerry went into the empty house. She fumbled 
through the kitchen to the shelf where the lamps stood and 
lighted one. Then she sat down and looked around the 
solitary room. 

“ It’s no use trying to find out why things are so,” she 
was thinking. “And it isn’t necessary for us to know, 
either. We can just live along, one day at a time ; and 
have faith in Him — have faith in Him.” 

Her face relaxed from its setness as she repeated that 
phrase, for the phrase meant something to her. 

She had taken off her gloves and was slowly smoothing 
them as they lay on her knee. She was glad she had come 
home to-night. She could not stay at the hotel with 
Salome ; and the child was so happy she did not need her. 
If she had needed her — here the woman’s face melted still 
more. 

“ Salome is living her life now,” she was thinking. “ I’ve 
lived mine. I’m getting old. I’m not for myself any 
more. I’m just Salome’s mother now. And the child loves 
me so much. That’s the sweetness there is left for me. 
There never was a child in the world that made love so 
sweet, never.” 


IN THE STUDIO 


251 

Suddenly Mrs. Gerry put her hands over her face ; there 
were tears in her eyes. 

She had not taken off her bonnet nor her cloak. The 
fire had long since gone out and the house was cold. 

Presently she began to feel the chill. 

She rose and quickly put on her everyday clothes. She 
hurried and made a fire. In half an hour she was sitting 
at the little round table where she and Salome used to sit 
together. She was drinking some tea and eating a piece 
of toasted bread. She was thinking that if Salome ever 
kept house she should probably live with her ; but she was 
sure that she was too old to try to learn to live in hotels. 

Perhaps the tea and the warmth cheered her. When she 
rose to wash her plate and cup and saucer she was looking 
forward to the Saturday when Salome would be with her 
for two days ; and she was reproving herself for those tears. 
She dared not think much about the tears, however, for 
she might find it impossible to keep more from coming. 

In Boston, Salome had hurried away from the station, 
going up the street with that carriage which is so aptly de- 
scribed as “walking upon air.” 

If she had thought of the matter she would have thought 
that she really did not need the support of the earth for 
her feet. She could have flown easily enough — only it was 
not the custom to fly. 

She was somewhat sad, as in her mind she went with her 
mother into the country and arrived at the cottage where 
no one awaited her. But this sadness was only sufficient 
to bring into greater relief the abounding joy in her heart. 
And on Saturday she should be with her mother again. 
She and Randolph. She wished that she could persuade 
her mother to live with her all the time ; but since she 
could not — 

She walked on, finding a delightful exhilaration in mere 
movement. She had known that she could be very happy, 
but she had not, after all, imagined anything at once so 
subtle and so sufficient. 


252 


OUT OF STEP 


Randolph had gone to New York, but he would be back 
before dinner. If she hurried she could reach the Albany 
station in time to meet him. 

She went on still faster. The train was just coming in. 
She stood at the entrance, where she could see the stream 
of people that began to pour along from the cars. She 
waited eagerly, but standing perfectly still, her furs held 
closely about her against the keen wind that rushed through 
the place. She did not notice how nearly every one gave 
her a glance of interest — a kind of light glance, as of pleas- 
ure in the sight of her. 

There he was. She made a step forward, then restrained 
herself, for Moore was not alone. A man with a serious, 
incisive sort of a face was beside him and talking with him. 

Salome knew immediately that it was Dr. Jennings, the 
surgeon whom the country physician had summoned when 
Moore had been injured. She had not seen him since that 
time, and that time now seemed years ago to her, there had 
b^en so much happiness crowded into the months since. 

Moore was not expecting to see his wife at the station, 
and now, as she looked again at the surgeon, she shrank 
from meeting him. She had been conscious of a certain 
hostility, not in his bearing, but in himself. She had not 
liked the way his eyes had probed her, as if the glance had 
been one of his keenest instruments. Now she was aware 
of a distinct distrust, and of a distinct wish that Randolph 
should not know that man. But at the same time she 
knew that these feelings were silly, and she made an effort 
to stifle them. She could not quite ‘resolve to turn away 
and not meet her husband, though he was not alone. While 
she was trying to resolve to do so Moore saw her, his face 
grew radiant, and he lifted his hat. 

“There’s my wife now,” he said, quickly, to his compan- 
ion. “ Come, let me present you.” 

“ Where ?” asked Dr. Jennings. “ Do you mean that 
lady who is smiling at you ?” 

“ Yes ; of course. Come !” 


IN THE STUDIO 


253 


“But did you marry her?’’ inquired the surgeon, in a 
surprise he did not try to conceal, and with a stress on the 
final pronoun. 

Moore turned towards him. There was a little haughti- 
ness in his manner as he said : 

“Certainly; I married Miss Gerry.” 

“Do pardon me,” the other rejoined, hastily. “But I 
lost all track of you, though you were such an interesting 
‘case.’ You see I went abroad very soon, and have only 
returned a week ago. It will give me a great deal of pleas- 
ure to be presented to Mrs. Moore.” 

The two men approached Salome, who had remained 
standing in the same place. 

She was slightly more pale than usual when Dr. Jennings 
made his bow to her, and there was something like resent- 
ment in her heart when she met his gaze, which was coldly 
questioning. 

But his manner was suave enough as he stood a few mo- 
ments talking commonplaces. 

When he had left them neither Salome nor Moore spoke 
directly. They walked out into the street in the direction 
of their hotel. The gladness in the woman’s heart was 
chilled, and she was trying to recover the warmth and joy 
with which she had started out. 

As for Moore, he looked down inquiringly at the face 
near him. He was groping after some solution of this sud- 
den discomfort. He was conscious also of a suspicion of 
impatience. He was so happy to be back again that he 
could not bear to come into any cloud. 

It was he who spoke first. 

“ Odd, wasn’t it,” he said, “ that I should happen to run 
upon that fellow .?” 

“ Yes,” was the reply, “ but I don’t know how you could 
know him.” 

“ Oh, as to that, I didn’t know him. How should I ? It 
was at Springfield that he came into my car. He had a 
chair just across the aisle from me. I didn’t notice him at 


254 


OUT OF STEP 


first. I thought he was reading, and I was reading too. 
All at once I became conscious that somebody was staring 
at me. 1 had a sort of uneasy feeling as one will have 
when some one is fixedly gazing at one. Why, Salome, am 
I paining you in any way ?” 

“No, no; go on. But Dr. Jennings doesn’t strike me as 
a man with a human heart ; he is just a piece of mechan- 
ism, with the unerring skill of mechanism, I suppose.” 

“Well, I don’t know about his heart; he has mind 
enough, anyway. His mind is as sharp as a knife,” said 
Moore. “ I wondered why he found me so interesting. I 
tried to keep on reading, but I couldn’t do it. Still I did 
manage to continue to appear to keep on. After a few mo- 
ments I heard him say, ‘ I beg your pardon. But were you 
injured on the head some months ago, in the country?’ At 
that I was interested enough, you may believe. Salome” — 
suddenly stopping in his narrative and looking down ten- 
derly at the woman on his arm — “ you must not have any 
more feeling as regards that time. Really I forbid it; I 
won’t stand it. You are my wife now. Won’t that content 
you ? It ought. Let the past get itself buried any way it 
can. You are mine now. If you were not, I should be the 
most miserable creature in the world.” 

“ You really think so ?” with a somewhat tremulous smile. 

“ I know it. And what is more, you c,an’t help knowing 
that I know it. Don’t you think you are a very exacting 
person, Mrs. Moore?” 

“Yes; I’m sure of it. And I’m not going to keep this 
up. But, Randolph, I do want to be a blessing to you — 
you just thought I was a blessing to you, didn’t you?” 
looking up at him. 

“ I think I intimated as much.” 

“Very well. Now go on with your little story. What 
did that horrible doctor say to you ?” 

“ Perhaps he is horrible ; I’ll own that there seems some- 
thing a trifle uncanny about him. I acknowledged to him 
that I did get a hard blow. Yes, he said, he knew me di- 


IN THE STUDIO 


255 


rectly, and he was interested to ask how I came out, and 
all that. I told him I came out all right; and would he 
kindly tell me who he was ? He said his name was Jen- 
nings. Then I knew that he must be the man who dealt 
with my skull that time. I tried to express my gratitude to 
him, but he said there was no occasion, that it was all in 
the way of business ; and he had been greatly interested in 
my case. He called it a very striking instance of — well. 
I’ll think of the word in a minute. It’s a word I never 
heard before, and I wouldn’t care to remember it only it 
was applied to my own skull, you see, so that makes it seem 
important.” 

Moore laughed in such a happy and infectious way that 
Salome joined him. His healthy, wholesome nature, his 
warmth of temperament, his love for her seemed now to 
Salome more dear than ever. She could hear him relate 
the remainder of his interview with that surgeon without 
any of that uncomfortable emotion which she had just ex- 
perienced. Besides, perhaps it was best for her to be able 
to hear that time mentioned, and to speak of it. 

“ What else did he say V she asked. 

“ Not much. He asked me if I was married.” 

“ I’m sure he thought you married Miss Nunally,” said 
Salome. 

“ What makes you think that ?” inquired Moore, quickly. 

“ I don’t know, exactly. Only he was greatly surprised 
when he saw me. He had expected to see some one else.” 

“ Oh, how sharp women are !” exclaimed Moore. 


XVI 


REFORMATION ? 

“ You ought to be thankful that we are sharp,” remarked 
Salome, now in high spirits, “ since men are so dull.” Then, 
with more earnestness, “ Even you have been so dull that 
you haven’t noticed that I’m turning over a new leaf. It’s 
so humiliating for a human being to be mere driftwood in 
the current of natural proclivities.” 

Moore glanced seriously down at his companion. He 
had never heard her speak like that before. He said 
nothing, and she went on now with something like solem- 
nity : 

“ I have an idea that words take away from action, some- 
how ; don’t you think that they do ? When you have talked 
a great deal about doing a thing, you have a sort of com- 
fortable feeling as if you had done it.” 

She was not a woman much given to making resolutions 
— at least, not since she had outgrown the morbid physical 
conditions of her girlhood. 

She could not tell why the sight of that surgeon had in 
some way stung her with a new wish to control her own 
being. A good resolution always carries a certain com- 
forting power like a step in the right direction. But it was 
not alone the meeting with Dr. Jennings. 

It was a look which she surprised upon her husband’s 
face. He did not know that she saw it. Perhaps it had 
all the greater effect because of that fact. 

It was after he had been talking to her about truth. He 
had left her. A few moments later she had gone down to 
the public parlor for a book she had been reading there. 


REFORMATION ? 


257 


She was startled to see Moore near the fireplace. There 
happened to be no one else in the room. Her foot-fall had 
made no sound on the carpet. She remained motionless, 
gazing at him. He was standing with his hands in his 
pockets, his head somewhat bent, in an attitude very un- 
usual with him. 

Salome’s heart contracted with a feeling different from 
any she had ever known. She knew her husband was 
thinking of her, painfully, bitterly, with discouragement. 

She did not enter the room. She went silently up the 
stairs again and sat down at a window of her own cham- 
ber. She should see Randolph when he went out. In 
a short time she saw him walking down the street. He 
moved as one preoccupied. She kept her eyes upon him 
as long as he was in sight. Then she rose from her place 
and walked about aimlessly for a moment. Her face now 
was more like the face of that girl who had been sent South 
for health. 

She held her hands tightly pressed together. 

Suddenly she stopped in her walk and knelt down in 
front of a chair, pressing her face into a velvet cushion. 

She was quiet so long that one might have thought that 
she had fallen asleep. 

When she did rise she walked to a table and took up a 
Bible lying there. She turned its leaves slowly, but she 
did not appear to be reading — in fact, she did not read a 
word. The mere sense that she was holding the Bible 
from which her mother read every day, and in which she 
used to read faithfully — this mere sense was all that she re- 
quired just now. It took her back. 

At last her lips moved. 

“ I don’t see why I — myself — don’t care. Why don’t I, 
of myself, have the wish to speak the truth ? What is it 
that they call being upright, anyway ? Does it make any 
difference ? Some people seem to think so much of it. Yes, 
and some people think so much of music, or of dress, or of 
this thing, or that. There’s Portia Nunally; she tells lies 
17 


258 


OUT OF STEP 


sometimes, I’m sure. And she was able to think of marry- 
ing that Major Root. She was going to sell herself. Isn’t 
she as bad as I am ? What is it about me that makes my 
mother and Randolph so worried ?” 

She stopped in her talk to herself and looked about her 
distressfully. 

“ Surely I love him well enough,” she exclaimed, “ to be 
anything he wants me to be. I’m going to tell the truth 
about everything, even the slightest little thing. I’m going 
to do it for him — ^just as I would learn to play the tambou- 
rine Or anything else. I didn’t know but that he might get 
over feeling this way; and I didn’t know but that I might 
get over feeling my way, and get to caring for the truth. 

“ Perhaps it would be a good plan to pray in regard to 
this. Somehow it doesn’t seem necessary to pray when you 
are happy. God appears to be taking care of you then with- 
out any interference. But I shall pray.” 

She went back to the chair and knelt down again. She 
clasped her hands before her as she had formerly done 
when she had prayed morning and night. She made her pe- 
tition aloud ; it was more real to her, for that was the way she 
had done in the old farm-house, when prayer had been so 
much to her. 

To her great surprise her mood instantly became fervidly 
and reverently beseeching. She had of late only put up 
frequent and almost involuntary prayers for her husband. 
She might be said to be praying for him all the time. 

Her asking of God now was simple in the extreme. Any 
one listening to her without seeing her would have said he 
was hearing a devout child. 

“ O Lord,” she said, “ you must help me to tell the truth. 
You must make a lie odious to me, for a lie is odious to my 
husband and my mother. They want me to be truthful. 
And since I can’t seem to care anything about it myself, I’ve 
made up my mind that I’m going to be truthful just to please 
them. Lord, I wish you would forgive me because the mo- 
tive isn’t right, but I can’t help it— I can’t help it ; so I’m 


REFORMATION ? 


259 


just going to be good to please them. Lord, be kind to me, 
and don’t let me make my husband unhappy. I love him so ! 
I love him so !” 

She did not say “Amen.” Her voice merely stopped. 
Perhaps it was because of the very simplicity of the words 
that her petition sounded so pathetic. It was like a heart 
unconsciously giving utterance to itself. 

She remained quiet for some time after her voice ceased 
to be heard in the room. At last she rose. She tried to 
settle down to some work, and she finally succeeded. That 
day made a mark upon her. She began to reckon things in 
her mind from that day. Often when she was with her hus- 
band she would turn and gaze at him searchingly but fur- 
tively. She was fearing to see upon his face that expression 
which she had surprised upon it in the hotel parlor. But if 
that look should come there she wished to know it. 

Once, as the two sat together of an evening, Moore glanced 
up from his paper, and met her eyes thus fixed upon him. 

“ I was examining you for some sign of a gnawing grief, 
an inward dissatisfaction,” she said. 

She spoke with so much impressiveness that Moore 
dropped his paper and gazed at her. 

“ Good heavens !” he exclaimed. “ Do you want me to 
have a gnawing grief and an inward dissatisfaction, Sa- 
lome ?” 

“ Oh no ! no !” 

Moore rumpled his hair and laughed. Then he took his 
turn, and gazed scrutinizingly at his wife. 

“ May I inquire,” he began, presently, “ if your liver is in 
excellent working order?” 

“ It isn’t my liver, it’s my moral nature,” she answered, 
with such undoubted seriousness that Moore directly be- 
came serious himself. But he did not speak. 

“ I’m afraid my moral nature has been a great trial to 
you,” she said. 

“ It is you who say that,” he answered. 

“ But I care about you,” she continued, “ and you care 


26 o 


OUT OF STEP 


for truth, dear Randolph ” — here Salome paused, and her 
lips were a trifle unsteady. 

Moore took one of her hands and held it closely. But he 
said nothing. 

She began again : 

“ I want to tell you that I’m not so stupid but that I’ve 
known and felt in these months with you that your life is 
really sweet and upright. You always turn towards the up- 
right course. You are not preachy about it, and you don’t 
pose for it. Mr. Dunn was telling me the other day about 
what he called the ‘W. and M. deal ’ — perhaps you’ll tell me 
what a deal is some time — that was before you had that 
money from your uncle, you know. He said that if you had 
told just a little lie then you would have netted ten thou- 
sand dollars at least. He said he should have told the fib ; 
but you never even thought of considering whether you 
should or not. He said you were the righl stuff, but you 
didn’t pretend. That’s it, Randolph; you don’t pretend. 
That’s one of your charms. Now I should have told that lie. 
I shouldn’t have thought much about it; or, if I had, I 
shouldn’t have thought it would hurt anybody.” 

Salome ceased speaking. After a while Moore, who was 
still holding the hand he had taken, asked, in a low 
voice : 

“ Is that all ?” 

“ No ; or, at least, it’s nearly all. The thing I set out to 
tell you is that I can’t live with you and not feel your life ; 
I think that’s what I mean. You are so much better than 
I am. You — ” 

“ Salome !” 

“ Don’t interrupt me. You are as warm-hearted as pos- 
sible, but you don’t just follow your heart as I do. I’ve 
noticed that. Is that because you’re a man ? You needn’t 
smile at me. What I meant really to tell you when I began 
is that I haven’t prevaricated, not the least little bit, for 
more than ten days. I’ve been watching myself. There 
are every so many small ways in which it’s so e?isy not to 


REFORMATION ? 


261 


tell quite the truth, don’t you know ? I don’t mean what 
you might call society falsehoods now. But I notice peo- 
ple do lie a good deal, when you come really to think 
about it.” 

There was such a naive flavor in this last remark that 
Moore could not help smiling, though his eyes were ear- 
nest. He thought that he had never imagined any one 
so frank as Salome could be — an entirely unconscious 
frankness. 

■‘You mean,” he said, with a slight hesitation, “that you 
are beginning to see the beauty of truth ?” 

“ No ; I don’t mean that at all.” 

Moore’s expressive face changed and clouded, in spite of 
his efforts to prevent it. 

She withdrew her hand. She leaned back in her chair, 
gazing down at him. Her eyes were full of light. She 
seemed to make her glance penetrate to her husband’s soul. 
There was something in her face that made the man more 
deeply conscious of her love than he had ever been. 

“ I mean,” she said at last, “that I think I have found 
out that I love you well enough to be truthful just because 
you want me to be. That isn’t much to do for you, is it ?” 

“ Oh, Salome !” 

Moore’s voice was hardly audible, but his wife heard it. 

The intent look between the two was much more than a 
caress. It was Moore who spoke now. 

“ And by-and-by you will come to love truth for its own 
sake.” 

“ I don’t know ; I can’t tell about that. I suppose wom- 
en are much too personal, aren’t they, Randolph ? I know 
very well that it is principle one ought to consider. But I 
can’t do that; not even for you. Now there is my moth- 
er — ” 

“ There’s a woman who considers principle,” interrupted 
Moore. 

“ Yes. I was going to say that, well as I love her, it was 
not enough to make me feel this way. I wonder if God is 


262 


OUT OF STEP 


pleased with such a love as I give you. Do you think He 
is ? Do you think He blames me ? Only He can really know 
the strength of it. Will it tire you, as time goes on, to be 
loved so much ?” 

It was a few weeks after this evening that a messenger- 
boy came with a note from Mrs. Darrah, who was still at 
the Vendome. The note stated that the writer of it was 
nearly bored to death, and would Mrs. Moore take pity on 
her ? 

Salome hesitated. She did not much like to be in Mrs. 
Darrah’s presence. Too many unpleasant memories were 
evoked. And when she was with this lady she was liable 
to meet Portia Nunally. 

The latter had adopted the best possible manner towards 
Salome— the ignoring of the past. 

Though Salome hesitated, after a while she started out 
to walk across the Common. It was now April, and one of 
the mild days of that month. The returning warmth did 
not fail to bring joy with it. She sauntered slowly, stopping 
upon any pretext. She paused to watch two sparrows 
fighting. 

Raising her eyes as the combatants parted and flew 
away, her glance encountered that of a man who was lean- 
ing against a tree with an open newspaper in his hand. 

He was a man past middle life, with a thin, keen, cold 
face. It was plain that he had been watching her as she 
had been watching the sparrows. 

He gravely raised his hat. 

In the first instant of confusion Salome did not recognize 
him, though she was aware that she knew the face well. 
Then the knowledge flashed upon her. It was Dr. Jen- 
nings. 

Her impulse was to hurry on, but she did not quite like 
to do that, as the gentleman seemed inclined to come for- 
ward and speak to her. He did come forward immediate- 
ly and quickly, but still somehow with an appearance of 
leisure. 


REFORMATION ? 


263 

“You look as if you were enjoying this lovely day, Mrs. 
Moore,” he said, much the same as any ordinary man would 
have spoken. 

Salome made an effort, and replied that she was always 
glad when summer was approaching. This extremely com- 
monplace talk about the seasons need not have affected Sa- 
lome unpleasantly. She was alarmed that she should begin 
to feel, as she expressed herself afterwards to her husband, 
like a fly impaled upon a pin, and wriggling and buzzing for 
the benefit of the person who has stuck the pin through the 
insect. 

“ Only,” as she assured Moore, she “ did not wriggle in the 
least ; she was just as calm as if she had not felt that way. 
But,” she added, “ I thought I couldn’t bear it when, as I 
started to go on down the walk, he came and placed him- 
self beside me and said that he hoped I would allow him to 
accompany me, as we seemed to be going in the same direc- 
tion. We didn’t speak a word for a few moments, though I 
was trying as hard as I could to think of something to say 
that would not be too frivolous nor too sensible. At last I 
gave up trying; and he had to speak first. 

“ He asked me if I enjoyed living in Boston, and I told 
him that I did. Then he smiled and remarked that I had 
the appearance of enjoying life anywhere. I was very well, 
wasn’t I ? Yes, I thanked him, I was very well. Then we 
came to a branch in the path. I wished that I knew which 
way he was going, so that I could go the other way. But, of 
course, I couldn’t guess that. However, he lifted his hat in 
that manner he has which is enough to chill the marrow in 
one’s bones, said that it had been a great pleasure to meet 
me and ‘ Good-morning, Mrs. Moore.’ I watched him walk 
off. I was glad he was walking away from me. I had real- 
ly begun to shiver. I suppose he is one of the most excel- 
lent men for cutting and sawing people that there is going, 
isn’t he Randolph ?” 

“ He has that reputation,” answered Moore, “ and you 
and I certainly ought to be grateful to him.” 


264 


OUT OF STEP 


“ Oh, I’m grateful beyond words for his skill, and I hope 
he has been paid in money for that,” was the response, 
with more bitterness than Moore had ever heard in her 
voice. 

He looked at her in some surprise. 

“ Don’t reprove me,” she said, smiling at him, “ because 
I can’t help the effect he has upon me. I think I feel as if 
I were being vivisected without being allowed an anaesthet- 
iCv And the sight of him makes me want to prove to him 
that I’m not the degraded wretch he thinks me. Boston 
isn’t large enough for him and me. On the other side of 
the Common I was lucky enough to meet Mrs. Bradford. 
As we were not far from her house, she quite insisted upon 
my going home with her. I saw my portrait again. It’s 
just a very little different from what it was when you saw 
it. She said she shouldn’t let it go out of her hands at 
present. She’s just a bit odd about that portrait.” 

Having said this, Salome reflectively folded and unfolded 
her handkerchief, gazing down at it. She and her husband 
were in their rooms at their hotel. 

Moore began to be very curious concerning that picture. 

“ The face is a real little Puritan face now,” said Salome. 

Moore rose. 

“ I don’t wish it to be that,” he said, with some indigna- 
tion. . “ I want it to be as I saw it last. If she keeps it, 
she will be continually touching it. It must be as you are 
now — sensitive, happy, enchanting.” 

“ Oh, thank you, Randolph,” with a brilliant smile. 

“ I’ll go there now,” he said. “ I won’t have that por- 
trait subject to any woman’s whims, even though that 
woman be Mrs. Bradford.” 

Salome seemed troubled. “ Don’t go until I’ve told you 
that I hadn’t seen the last of Dr. Jennings,” she said. “ He 
was at Mrs. Darrah’s. It seems he is an old acquaintance 
of hers.” 

The speaker shuddered. 

“ He sat there and made very pleasant and perfectly 


REFORMATION ? 265 

appropriate remarks. He frequently smiled. Have you 
ever seen him smile, Randolph ? 

“ It is just as if a piece of polished steel should suddenly 
scintillate. It was all I could do to keep from trembling 
with fear and hate when he smiled. He sees right through 
me, and he is glad every time he comes upon a weakness 
or a fault. He hasn’t any weaknesses or faults. Why 
should he have? He isn’t flesh and blood. He is some- 
thing that despises flesh and blood ; anyway, he despises 
me. Randolph, do you know that he makes me think con- 
tinually when he is in my presence of that forgery, and of 
the falsehoods I have told, and that I can never reform', 
and, worst of all, that in the end you will be unhappy with 
me ? Every time I’ve seen that man I begin immediately 
to realize that some time you’ll be wretched with me ; that 
you’ll curse the day you saw me. Let me be just as melo- 
dramatic as I choose, but I mean all I say, and more too. 
Dr. Jennings thinks I’m a vile creature, and he knows that 
you will come to grief because of me.” 

Salome was not given to indulging in any such kind of 
talk as this. Her nature was essentially sweet and for- 
bearing. 

A few moments later Moore was on his way to Mrs. Brad- 
ford’s. He was uneasy. He did not like to recall the sur- 
geon’s look of surprise when he had seen Salome that day 
in the station. But Salome’s repulsion was of no conse- 
quence. Some personalities repelled, and some attracted ; 
and who could tell why it was so ? 

He was shown into a reception-room at the Bradford 
home. He had waited but a moment when the mistress 
of the house entered. 

As she gave him her hand, she said : 

“ I’m so sorry, Mr. Moore.” She hesitated, and then 
asked : “ Do you wish me to be perfectly frank with you ? 
You know a person is very disagreeable when he is per- 
fectly frank.” 

Moore felt somewhat embarrassed as he stood before 


266 


OUT OF STEP 


this woman. He had no idea how much his wife might 
have confided to her. His wife was so strangely given to 
making confessions sometimes. He could wish that she 
had not that proclivity. 

Even while the young man thought this, he could not but 
know that this curious openness was one of Salome’s strong- 
est charms ; it seemed such a contradiction, and it made 
her something quite out of the ordinary. 

“ Well, then,” said Mrs. Bradford at last, “ I will confess 
to you that I am sorry that I yielded to the temptation and 
tried to paint Mrs. Moore’s portrait.” 

“ Because you think you have not succeeded ?” 

“ No. Don’t think me conceited if I say it is because I 
think I have succeeded too well.” 

“ Oh ?” 

Moore uttered the exclamation questioningly. He gazed 
with a bewildered misgiving at his companion. 

“ I feel haunted by a foolish fear, as if I had assisted at 
some kind of a betrayal,” went on Mrs. Bradford. “ That 
may be a womanish notion. Do you think it is that ? But 
come into the studio. I have given the face several touches 
of late. Mrs. Moore’s countenance is so vividly in my 
mind that I dare to put a brush to the canvas sometimes 
when she is not present. I have changed it since she saw 
it last, and two or three times since you saw it. Of course 
portrait-painting, if you really care for it, must be more or 
less of a psychological study.” 

As she finished speaking, Mrs. Bradford led the way to 
the studio. 

Moore followed her, and walked immediately to the easel. 
His eager expression changed indescribably as he stood 
there. 

He would not have been able to describe, though he felt 
keenly, the subtle difference in the face whose eyes were 
looking directly, in his eyes. 

The artist stood beside him, watching him. 

Finally he turned to her. 


REFORMATION ? 267 

“ It is much more than beautiful,” he said ; “ it has 
charm — even a stranger must feel that.” 

Although he ceased speaking, it appeared as if he had 
more to say. After a moment’s pause, he continued : “ It 
is baffling, bewildering.” 

“ Is she not so ?” inquired Mrs. Bradford, in a low voice. 
“ Do you not still find her so ? Pardon me, Mr. Moore, 
but if I talk at all on this subject, I must talk openly. I 
have never been so confused as since I began this work.” 

“ I can believe that,” was the reply, in the same subdued 
tone in which Mrs. Bradford had spoken. 

There was much more that Moore would have liked to 
say, but he could not. It seemed to him that it would be 
a relief to speak to this woman from his very heart ; still 
he could not; certainly he must not, if Salome had not 
spoken. 

“ Has Mrs. Moore talked with you ? Has she said any- 
thing ?” he asked, somewhat vaguely. 

“ Oh no,” was the immediate response. “ Why should 
she ?” 

And the speaker’s thought instantly was : 

“ Then there is something.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Moore, glancing at the woman be- 
side him. “ Yes, I do know, too,” hastily. “ Are you not 
aware that it would be easy to confide in you ?” 

Mrs. Bradford shook her head smilingly. 

“ I had, as I worked, a strange feeling of compunction,” 
she said ; “ but when Mrs. Moore’s mother w^as here I be- 
gan to be conscious more and more of something which I 
could not define.” 

“ What ? Has Mrs. Gerry seen the portrait ?” 

“ Yes, just as she was leaving town. She said she did 
not ‘think it was right.’ For some reason, Mr. Moore, I 
have an inclination to believe in her conclusions. I think 
she arrives at her decisions in a white light, if I may speak 
thus. You understand me ?” 

“ Yes, yes. Her mind leaps to the right, pure and simple.” 


268 


OUT OF STEP 


Moore spoke with unmistakable emphasis. 

“ I saw,” said Mrs. Bradford, “ that she felt as if this 
portrait was not only a kind of betrayal ; it was also a sort 
of arraignment. Do forgive me, Mr. Moore. I know those 
words are not the proper ones to use, but I have none which 
can express the fine shade of my meaning.” 

Moore was painfully wondering how mere pigments upon 
canvas could so express the weakness of Salome’s moral 
nature, at the same time that they expressed the strength 
and richness and faithfulness of what might be called, for 
lack of a better term, her emotional nature. 

“ She looks so happy,” he said, under his breath. 

“ She is so happy,” said Mrs. Bradford. 

“ Thank Heaven for that !” exclaimed Moore. 

Mrs. Bradford took her palette and a large brush. She 
filled the brush with paint indiscriminately from the palette. 

She looked at the man who was still gazing at the picture. 

“ It is for you to give me permission,” she said. 

He waited before he answered. At last he said : 

“ I suppose it is best.” 

But still the artist hesitated. In an instant she stepped 
forward and drew the brush broadly and quickly over the 
glowing face of the portrait. Almost at the same time 
Moore caught her arm ; but he was too late. He was quite 
pale. 

“ Good God !” he said, in a whisper. 

He felt almost as if it were Salome herself who had been 
wounded — mortally hurt before his eyes. 

Mrs. Bradford also was pale. The hand with which she 
put down the brush now trembled slightly. 

“ Did you not mean that I might do this ?” she asked, 
after a silence. 

“ Yes, yes ; I meant it. But it was horrible !— horrible !” 

The woman did not speak. She felt that there was noth- 
ing for her to say. She had not acted on the impulse of 
the moment. 

Perhaps no one save an artist could quite understand 


REFORMATION ? 


269 


how much that stroke of the brush had cost her. And, 
perhaps, she would regret it. Had she acted upon the 
urging of a mere fantastic sentiment J But her companion 
had felt the same sentiment also. And when she thought 
of Mrs. Gerry she did not feel as if it were a whim which 
" had impelled her. 

Moore walked to the end of the studio and sat down on 
a couch. He bent forward with an arm upon each knee. 
He shaded his eyes with one hand. 

Mrs. Bradford removed the canvas from the easel and 
placed it with its face against the wall. Mingled with her 
other thoughts was the inward assurance that she had nev- 
er done better work. But that thought she immediately put 
away. In view of other things, it was an unworthy subject 
to think upon. 

Moore rose and came towards her. 

“You must think me very weak,” he said. 

“ No, no,” she answered. “ Do you wish me to paint 
another portrait of Mrs. Moore? — one which shall be merely 
a conventional likeness ? Would it not be better for me to 
do so ? and if any questions are asked concerning this it 
will be enough to reply that you and I were dissatisfied 
with it.” 

“ Certainly, that will be enough,” answered Moore. “ But 
I’m not sure that I want another portrait. You are so kind,” 
he continued. “ We are going out of town in a few weeks 
now. Perhaps we shall not meet again. Mrs. Bradford,” 
with a sudden increase of earnestness, “ I can’t help wish- 
ing that my wife knew you better. Now, thank you, and 
good-bye.” 

Here the lady rose and stood in front of him, gazing at 
him intently. 

“ I will think about the portrait. But my feeling is now 
that I shall not want it,” said Moore again. 

Mrs. Bradford accompanied her guest into the hall. She 
extended her hand in farewell, 


270 


Out of step 


Though she called later upon Salome, the latter was not 
at home, and the two did not meet again. 

Besides Salome’s longing to be in the country with her 
mother, as the spring grew in warmth and beauty, there 
was a wish to be out of the way of meeting Mrs. Darrah or 
Miss Nunally. She never knew when Mrs. Darrah might 
send for her, and when she was thus sent for Salome did 
not like to refuse. 

On the last occasion, when she had thus visited the Ven- 
dome, Portia had been in her aunt’s sitting-room, as was to 
be expected, since she was staying at the hotel with Mrs. 
Darrah. Dr. Jennings had called again. Salome felt her 
terror and hate spring into active life the moment she saw 
him come across the room towards her. She could not give 
him her hand, as the other ladies did. She drew herself up 
in a way quite unlike her ordinary genial self and bowed 
distantly. His coldly hostile glance cut its way, she thought, 
right to all her faults, as it had done before. 

He was very polite. He stood by her side much longer 
than was necessary, and insisted upon conversing with her. 

But she saw him look over at Portia often, and presently 
he was beside the girl, wearing the air of devotion in a cu- 
rious way. Still his face did not soften in the least. He 
gazed at Portia as if she were something inanimate, but 
which, perhaps, he admired, with perfect self-possession 
and coolness. 

After a little Salome controlled her own feelings suffi- 
ciently to enable her to contemplate Portia with some 
knowledge of her manner. And her manner was unmis- 
takably quelled, At first it seemed that this could not 
be. But, yes, Dr. Jennings’s calm, icy glance took in every 
detail of Portia’s appearance, and then rested with un- 
swerving assurance, and with satisfaction, upon the girl’s 
face. There was not the slightest air of the “ lover ” about 
him, but Salome was convinced before she rose to leave 
that the great surgeon was an admirer of Miss Nunally. 
She could not in the least guess what would be Portia’s 


REFORMATION ? 


271 


idea of this man as a suitor, for she was so unlike herself 
that she seemed to be some one else. He talked much and 
well ; he chose his words with perfect accuracy, and he de- 
ferred greatly to anything Miss Nunally said, but he did not 
for an instant fail in the entire and perfectly poised control 
he exercised over himself and over her. His keen eyes 
were dominant. 

In the course of his conversation Salome learned that he 
was somewhat out of health, and that he had not, since his 
return home, resumed the practice of his profession. 

That evening Salome expressed to her husband her de- 
sire to go into the country directly- — the very next day. She 
said again that Boston was too small to contain both herself 
and that celebrated surgeon. For some reason she said 
nothing to Moore about Dr. Jennings and Portia. Perhaps 
because she did not often wish to speak of Miss Nunally 
to him. The memories the name awakened could not be 
pleasant to either. 

When Salome was at home with her mother, and Moore 
was also there, she thought no more, save fleetingly, of Mrs. 
Darrah and her niece, or of Dr. Jennings. Why should she 
think of them ? She did not see them. All that she loved 
was with her. Every day the sun rose higher in the heav- 
ens ; every day the air was warmer and sweeter. The in- 
tensity of her temperament, which must make for vivid 
misery or vivid happiness, made now most gloriously for 
happiness. The tropical luxuriousness of her nature ena- 
bled her to give up entirely to this happiness. She did not 
spoil it by questioning. The New England part of her was 
so much in abeyance that she could successfully put the 
questioning and the introspection away. 

She tried not to forget the resolves she had mide con- 
cerning truth. She used to talk with Moore on this subject 
as they sat under the trees in hot, sunny days, or strolled 
over the high, sweet-smelling pastures. 

Moore had never dreamed of being so happy. It seemed 
to him now that his hopes were being fulfilled. Salome 


272 


OUT OF STEP 


was proving herself to be susceptible to that influence that 
should make her respect the truth. How could she avoid 
this result in the presence, as she was, of the two beings 
whom she so loved, and who so loved her ? 

“ I would do anything for you,” she said again, as she 
and Moore sat under a pine-tree which grew at the very 
top of a pasture. And then she added, with a laugh, “I 
would even tell the truth.” 


XVII 


“the end is vision’’ 

Moore winced a little. 

“ I love to have you do things for me,” he responded, 
“ only, you know, if I were out of the question, you must 
still tell the truth.” 

He had not spoken like this since their talk in Boston, 
when she had avowed her intention of “ reforming for his 
sake.” He had often been curious to know if she still 
based her idea of reformation on that one foundation — for 
his sake. But he had dreaded to ask. 

She looked at him attentively. At last she said : 

“ I can do this or that because you like to have me, and 
because I love you. But I cannot make myself over. I’ve 
been trying, and I can’t do it. I’ve tried for two reasons : 
because I hate Dr. Jennings, and because I love you. But 
I know now it’s true that we don’t change. I know it just 
as well as if I had worked years to prove it. Even a love 
like mine for you doesn’t change me. You know what 
Schopenhauer says of the ‘unchangeableness of innate 
tendencies in the individual, and the invariability of the 
primitive disposition.’ He thinks only ‘ appearances are 
refined, and that there is no change below the surface.’ ” 

“ But what business have you with Schopenhauer ?” 
asked Moore, with some heat. “ Why do you read such 
depressing stuff as he writes ? We might as well give up 
life and all hope of everything if you believe what he 
says.” 

“ But if what he says is true,” inquired Salome, mourn- 
fully, “what shall we do then ? You love truth so well. 


274 


OUT OF STEP 


Randolph, that you don’t want to choose to try to believe 
a thing because it’s pleasant, do you ? I might do that; I 
think I should, for I turn to whatever will make me happy. 
But you ? 

“ You see, when I was in Boston I used to go to the 
Public Library sometimes when you were away. When you 
have a thing in mind it is odd how you stumble upon the 
subject everywhere, almost. So I happened to read occa- 
sionally what other people had thought about what I was 
thinking so much. I didn’t get much encouragement. 
Even Darwin said that he was ‘ inclined to believe that 
education and environment produce only a small effect on 
the mind of any one, and that most of our qualities are in- 
nate’ — and Francis Galton thinks so too.” 

Moore stared at his wife. He hardly knew whether it 
would be better to laugh at her or to treat the conversation 
seriously. He decided that it would be frivolous to do the 
former. 

“ Did you read anything on the other side ?” he asked. 

“Oh yes; I’ve read a lot on the other side,” was the 
reply. “And you know that’s the way I was brought up — 
to think that we can make ourselves over- — or rather that 
God, Christ, can make us over if we will allow it. Were 
you brought up so, Randolph ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I suppose my mother believes that ; I know she does.” 

Salome spoke with deep solemnity. She held her hus- 
band’s hand, but she was not looking at him ; she was 
gazing down the slope of the field into the blinding sun- 
shine that was making the air glimmer with heat, and 
bringing out the perfume of the wild, odorous shrubs all 
about them. 

“ Yes,” Salome went on ; “my mother thinks that we can 
make of ourselves, in a degree, what we will. Perhaps my 
mother could do that. But I have about made up my mind 
that we are, after all, more or less the slaves of inherited 
tendencies.” 


THE END IS VISION 


275 


u 


)» 


Moore’s face darkened with the pain her words gave 
him. She turned towards him in time to see that expres- 
sion. She put her head on his shoulder. 

“ Don’t look so,” she whispered. 

“ But I thought you had some of the Christian beliefs,” 
he said ; “ the Christian beliefs are surely high and noble 
ones. It needs no argument to show that.” 

“ I used to be a real, truly little Christian,” she said, 
smiling — “ that is, I was a skin-deep one. But I didn’t 
know then that I was so shallow, and that I was, in fact, 
a pagan. Are you sorry that I am a pagan, Randolph ? 
But you needn’t worry, and don’t tell mother that I’ve 
been talking so silly. I’ve been just as truthful all these 
months as if I cared for the truth. But it is you I care 
for.” 

Moore tried not to show the depression he felt. All that 
day and the next it seemed to him that he could think of 
nothing save the subject of this conversation, in which he 
had borne so slight a part. 

On the third day the two were sitting again under the 
same tree. They had brought some books to read, but 
after a little Moore shut his own volume, and, leaning for- 
ward, he put his hand on the open page of Salome’s book. 

“ I know it’s stupid to read,” she said. “ It’s a thousand 
times better to just sit and take in this day.” 

Moore replied that he had a great deal to say, and he 
proceeded forthwith to say it. He began by protesting, 
with all the warmth of an actually painful conviction, that a 
human being need never be a slave to anything; that the 
mind and the will were to be used to cultivate this tendency 
and to suppress that tendency. It was nothing less than 
criminal for a man to decide that, because he happened to 
be born wdth an inclination to stoop, he should not try to 
throw back his shoulders and stand erect. No doubt it 
was harder for him to stand erect than for some one else 
who had a good backbone to begin with. It was just so 
with Ae moral nature. 


276 


OUT OF STEP 


The young man went on hurriedly, but with some force 
and clearness, to state those arguments which have been 
the foundation of so much right living since the world be- 
gan. He had never talked so openly and forcefully to 
Salome since he had known her, but all the time he was 
speaking, and nothwithstanding her dependent attitude and 
her absorbed listening, he knew that his words were like 
water washing over a stone. 

Suddenly he stopped in the middle of a sentence. He 
felt as if a cold hand had been laid upon him, or as if 
some voice had whispered the word “ Impossible !” in his 
ear. 

Salome raised her head from his shoulder, where she had 
kept it closely all the time he had been speaking. 

“ Why don’t you go on ?” she asked. 

Moore tried to smile. 

“ Why should I go on ?” he inquired. “ I am tired, and 
I’m sure you are more tired than I am, and besides it oc- 
curs to me that all these words are thrown away. You 
know what Browning says : 

“Though we prayed you, 

Brayed you in a mortar, 

For you could not. Sweet.’ 

And it also occurs to me that you may have just as good 
a right to think as you do as I have to think as I do. 
Only — ” Here Moore abruptly rose to his feet. A deep 
red flush mounted to his forehead as he exclaimed : “ I 
wish to God that we did not differ abput a vital moral 
point !” 

Salome leaned her head back against the tree -trunk. 
Her eyes were fixed on her husband’s face. 

Moore felt helplessly that he could tear out his tongue 
for having spoken impatiently to any one who could look 
at him like that. 

“ Oh, I can’t help it ! I can’t help it !” exclaimed Sa- 
lome. She clasped her hands as she added; “ But perhaps 


THE END IS VISION 


(( 




277 


I shall be able to act as you want me to, though I can’t 
be what you want me to be.” 

What could Moore do but throw himself down at his 
wife’s side and try to comfort her? He made a resolve 
that he would never again attempt to make her other than 
she was — since the effort, besides being entirely useless, 
was fraught with such pain for them both. 

Afterwards, thinking of the matter more calmly by him- 
self, he extracted a great deal of comfort from the thought 
that Salome was really different in her outward regard for 
truth. 

Now, as the two sat there, a figure turned in at the open 
bars at the bottom of the pasture. Salome saw it first, but 
she was not far-sighted; she could only see that it was a 
human figure. 

Moore, however, sprang up. His glance, he was sure, 
could not be mistaken in the carriage of the stranger. 

“ It’s Miss Nunally,” he said. “ I’m going to run away. 
Of course it’s you she wishes to see. Odd that she should 
come out here.” 

And Moore strode off into the young oak-wood that grew 
on the other side of the hill. 

Salome watched Portia as she slowly came up the slope. 
She dreaded the meeting. She wondered what freak had 
sent the girl here. She had lost all track of Mrs. Darrah 
and her niece since she had come to her old home, and 
she was glad of it. She wished that she might never see 
them again. And yet she knew that she could still feel 
that personal charm which belonged to Miss Nunally in so 
marked a degree. 

When she was still a good many rods away Portia threw 
back her parasol and looked up the hill. She saw Salome, 
who was now standing, and who waved her hand in re- 
sponse to the same gesture. 

In a few moments the two women had greeted each 
other, and were sitting on the pine-needles. Portia took 
off her hat and ran her fingers through her hair. 


278 


OUT OF STEP 


“ I wanted to see you alone,” remarked the new-comer, 
“and when your mother said that I should probably find 
you and Mr. Moore under this pine-tree, I quite reckoned 
upon his going away, as he has kindly done. Don’t excuse 
him. I should have asked him to go if he hadn’t already 
gone.” 

Having spoken thus, Portia relapsed into a silence that 
she appeared to have no intention of breaking. 

Salome wondered if she had come merely to sit beside 
her and say nothing. She looked at her closely. She 
thought her companion looked old and depressed. There 
seemed nothing at all of the usual brilliant, challenging air 
that was so stimulating to any one who was with this wom- 
an. There was an inertness in her attitude, in the hands, 
that was not merely fatigue. It was not until a long time 
had passed that Portia said : 

“ It is very beautiful here. But it’s a great mistake to 
be made so that one is obliged to feel beauty. I’m look- 
ing forward to old age, when I shall not feel anything.” 

She turned towards Salome. 

“ For all that has happened, or can happen, it will always 
be lovely to be with you, Salome. It isn’t your goodness, 
you know. It’s yourself.” 

Salome returned the gaze fixed upon her. She asked, 
in a whisper; 

“ What is the matter 

“ Oh, nothing much,” was the answer. “ Only I’m en- 
gaged.” 

Salome involuntarily drew back. 

“To that man.?” she exclaimed. 

“Yes,” the other replied. “I thought that if I ever 
wanted to be dissected alive he would be delighted to do 
it, and that no one could do it more skilfully. He never 
bungles about anything. I should hate a bungler.” 

“ But do you love him ?” 

“What an old-fashioned question! You are so ridicu- 
lous, Salome. No, I don’t love him. I don’t want to, 


THE END IS VISION 


279 




either. Think of what a woman must suffer who should 
love Cyrus Jennings ! He is absolutely respectable. I 
don’t think he ever did a wrong thing in his life. He is al- 
ways correct. You know his reputation in his profession. 
He has quite a property; his income is very large. He is 
able, brilliant. He is like a steel blade — no, not steel, for 
one might strike a spark from steel — a blade of ice, sharp 
and cold. He hasn’t any emotions to deplete him. He 
ought to live forever. I think he will. But, thank Heaven ! 
I shall not live forever, and I believe in marrying for 
money, particularly if you can respect your husband ; and 
if I can’t respect mine, it will be my own fault.” 

Portia had spoken all this with her peculiar deliberate- 
ness of utterance. 

Now she turned towards Salome. She placed her hand, 
which, in spite of the heat, was cold, upon Salome’s arm. 

“Perhaps it was strange,” she said, now speaking un- 
steadily, “ but I wanted to see you — I felt as if I must see 
you before — before it happened. And I don’t think we 
shall ever meet again. Dr. Jennings is going to London. 
He is already known there, and a most flattering offer has 
been made to him.” 

She finished the last sentence quite firmly. 

Salome put her arm about her companion’s shoulders. 

“ Oh, don’t do it !” she cried. 

“Yes, I shall do it,” was the hard reply. “ But I wanted 
to see you once more,” and her voice trembled again. 
“ This is the last time I mean to have any kind of feeling — 
the very last,” in a passionate tone. “ It is freezing to be 
with that man. I’m afraid of the glance of his eyes ; when 
he speaks he chills me ; and yet I have a strange kind of 
admiration for him. Think of my being afraid of any one ! 
Or, rather, you need not think of me at all. You will not. 
You are too happy. And now I’m going.” 

She made an attempt to rise, but Salome held her hands. 

“ When,” she asked — “ when is it to be ?” 

“ To-morrow.” 


28 o 


OUT OF STEP 


“ So soon ! That is dreadful !” 

“Oh no, not dreadful. It is an extremely brilliant 
match ; suitable in every way. Besides, you know ‘ if it 
were done it were well it were done quickly.’ And I trust 
I shall be grateful because I have made out so well.” 

Here a violent sob shook the girl’s form. But there 
were no tears in her eyes. 

She released one of her hands and put her arm around 
Salome. 

“You are a natural woman,” she said; “there’s no make- 
believe about you. And you are happy — I hope you’ll be 
able to keep up that habit of being happy. And now 
good-bye.” 

“ Can nothing stop you ?” asked Salome. 

“Yes ; one thing : death. There might be another thing 
— love ; but that is now impossible for me. Good-bye.” 

The two women kissed each other, and Portia walked 
away. Salome did not sit down. She continued standing, 
watching the girl go down the hill as she had watched her 
come up. 

At the very bottom of the slope Portia turned. She 
made no gesture. She stood gazing for a moment at the 
woman beneath the tree. Then she went on out of sight. 

Mrs. Gerry said that Miss Nunally had come alone in a 
carriage from the railroad station. She had fastened the 
horse in the yard of the cottage on the ledge, and, when she 
had made her inquiries, had gone on. On her return she 
drove away without coming to the house again. 

When Salome told her mother of the intended marriage, 
Mrs. Gerry remarked that, as she remembered Dr. Jennings, 
and if she were not mistaken, he was probably the only per- 
son who could control that woman. 

“ But she’ll be unhappy,” said Salome. 

“ She’ll have herself to thank, then,” responded Mrs. 
Gerry. Then she added, in a more charitable tone, “ But 
we won’t judge her. When I saw her face I was sorry for 
her.” 


THE END IS VISION 


281 


“You needn’t waste any sorrow on her,” now remarked 
Moore, rather sharply. “ She will get what she has bar- 
gained for — money and position. She hasn’t any heart; 
she has only emotions. And such women are the cruel- 
lest creatures in the world. And Jennings is a gentleman, 
anyway.” 

The others said nothing more. 

On the second day from that of her brief visit cards came 
from Dr. and Mrs. Cyrus Jennings to the Moores. Salome 
would not look at them. And it was in silence that she read 
an item that Moore showed her in a paper which told of the 
departure of the great surgeon and his bride for a residence 
in London. 

Salome could hardly understand the pain the thought of 
this marriage gave. And she could not understand, try as 
she would, anything of the springs of action in a woman 
like Portia Nunally, who seemed refined and fastidious ; 
but no woman could be either refined or fastidious who 
could deliberately choose to make a marriage of conven- 
ience. 

After this incident nothing seemed to happen all the rest 
of the summer and through the delightful fall. The autumn 
gave day after day of wonderful sweetness and beauty — that 
indescribable sweetness which only a New England autumn 
gives in its fullest measure. It is such calm days which, as 
they pass, seem to leave no mark, which yet go further than 
anything else to the deepening of delight. 

Sometimes Nely Scudder would come over to the cottage, 
and she and Salome would go into the woods or fields for 
hours. No day was ever too hot for Salome, and Nely did 
not like to acknowledge that she could not bear comfort- 
ably a heat which appeared to steep Salome’s conscious- 
ness in pleasure. 

Moore would lie in a hammock under the trees near the 
house, and his wife would lean over him and express her 
pity for one who did not know how to appreciate a tem- 
perature that was simply perfect. She assured him that 


282 


OUT OF STEP 


she did not wish him to stir, but she and Nely were go- 
ing out to enjoy the day. Once, as she came thus to 
bid him good-bye, she said that there was only one draw- 
back. Here she hesitated, and waited for Moore to ques- 
tion her. 

“ And what is that ?” 

“I’m a little afraid — afraid of myself,” she answered. 
“ Something that has been asleep in me wakes. But you 
think I’m fanciful, don’t you, Randolph ? Tell me that 
you think so.” 

“ I most certainly know that you are absurdly fanciful,” 
was the prompt and emphatic response. 

“ Yes ; you must be right,” she returned. She looked 
up at the sky. “ Did you ever see such a hot, pale blue ? 
It is almost as hot as a Florida sky in summer ; almost, 
but not quite. On such days I think of that man my 
mother tells me about — the man from the West Indies, 
her grandfather, whom every one loved, but who had no 
principle. He was my great-grandfather, you know, and 
none of his descendants have been in the least like him, 
until I was born, and they didn’t suspect it in me for a 
long time. Now read yourself to sleep.” 

She turned away. Moore half rose. He had an im- 
pulse to call her back. But he did not. He did not re- 
member that she had ever mentioned that West Indian 
ancestor in just that way before. Indeed, she rarely spoke 
of him. 

Mrs. Gerry came out before the two figures were hidden 
among the trees. She gazed at them. Then she turned 
towards Moore, and their eyes met in a glance of affec- 
tion. 

“ Salome is happy,” she said. 

“Yes,” answered the young man, his face glowing re- 
sponsive. 

The October “days of golden glory” always have a back- 
ground of approaching winter, but sometimes this back- 
ground seems a long way off. It seemed a long way off 


THE END IS VISION 


283 

this fall, which the Moores spent in the country. Every 
night the sun left a flush behind him in which the stars 
slowly appeared. The crickets kept up their agreeable 
monotony. There was little wind, and the bright leaves 
hung on the trees of the hills, and flamed along by the 
narrow water-courses. The green pines stood against the 
scarlet oaks. 

“ I reckon we sh’ll git our pay for this,” remarked Mr. 
Scudder one morning, as he stopped at the cottage to leave 
a pound of butter. “ I ain’t known no such fall since ’67, 
when it lasted right up to December. But we had a tough 
old winter.” 

“ Do let us enjoy this while it lasts,” responded Salome. 

“ I s’pose you folks are goin’ to git red of the winter,” 
said Mr. Scudder, putting the change given in payment for 
the butter into a wash-leather bag that he had extracted 
from a pocket which seemed to reach nearly down to his 
knee. “ When you goin’ to start ?” 

“ We thought we’d be off about the middle of Novem- 
ber,” replied Mrs. Gerry. 

When he had gone Salome sat in silence by the window 
for a while. 

Mrs. Gerry felt somehow that this was not the silence of 
assent, and she did not understand it. 

The two were alone, for Moore had gone to Boston. Sa- 
lome had been washing dishes and helping “ do up the 
work.” Both women had objected to Moore’s proposal 
that they have a servant. They said a servant would take 
away all the home feeling. A New England woman who is 
not born to wealth does not like the idea of receiving ser- 
vice in the household ; it confuses her. 

Suddenly Salome said ; “ I suppose you’d be glad not to 
go, mother ?” 

Mrs. Gerry was putting a stick of wood into the cook- 
stove. The two were in the kitchen, where the sunlight 
was coming in through the east window. 

She hastily shut the stove, and then turned to look fully 


284 


OUT OF STEP 


at her daughter. Salome smiled into her mother’s anxious 
eyes. 

“ I shall be glad to go anywhere with you, child,” she 
answered. 

“ I’ve changed my mind,” said Salome. “ I’ve decided 
not to go South this winter.” 

“ Not to go ?” 

Mrs. Gerry repeated the words in amazement. She knew 
well with what joy Salome had anticipated the coming win- 
ter in the South with her mother and her husband. She 
knew that not to go must be something like turning away 
from Paradise for her daughter. 

“ Of course you are surprised,” said the younger woman. 

“ Yes, I am. Does Randolph know ?” 

“ I haven’t spoken of it before. I wanted to tell you 
first. Mother — ” Salome rose quickly from her chair, went 
to her mother’s side, and put her arms about her in that 
way that always made the heart of the elder woman start 
with tenderness and fear — fear of she knew not what. 

“ Mother,” whispered Salome, “ I’m afraid. I can’t go. 
I wanted to tell you. Don’t do anything about getting 
ready ; I shall not go.” 

Mrs. Gerry sat down and* drew her child into her lap, as 
she had done years ago. She pressed her hand on Sa- 
lome’s head, which rested on her shoulder. 

“ What is it ?” she asked. “ Why are you afraid ?” 

All 'the sickening anxiety which for months had been 
sleeping suddenly sprang fully awake in the woman’s mind. 
She began instinctively, as of old, to arm herself that she 
might help her girl in whatever way she might need help. 

“ I’m afraid of myself,” answered Salome. 

Her mother held her still more closely, and waited until 
she should say more. In a moment Salome went on : 

“You know I’m trying to be good. Perhaps you didn’t 
know it, but I am. I’m not really any more good, because 
I feel just the same. But Randolph — and you — have been 
so unhappy — I needn’t explain, need I ? — ” 


“the end is vision’' 285 

Mrs. Gerry shook her head. There was more intensity 
in Salome’s words now : 

“ Well, it’s been so hard, so almost impossible for me to 
be — to be the kind of girl I ought to be — this last summer, 
you know — in the lovely hot weather when such impulses 
spring up in me, and part of me clamors to yield, and the 
New England part of me, I call it that, says I must not 
yield, and all the time I feel as if it were right, only that 
Randolph — and you — want me to be a different kind of 
woman. And I’m wretched at thought of doing what you 
don’t like. Oh, do you understand ? I can’t tell you so 
you’ll understand, I’m afraid. I want to live with the two 
people I love, in the South — and just live. But I’ve made 
up my mind to stay in the North because — don’t laugh at 
me — perhaps in time in the North I could cultivate a con- 
science, and so do a thing because it is right. I’ve found 
out this summer for sure’ that when the weather is so di- 
vinely hot I’m more of a pagan than ever. It all sounds 
queer enough when I put it in words, doesn’t it ? But it’s 
true. I wish it were not true. No, don’t speak yet. It’s 
just as if there were something coiled up in me that is my 
real, genuine self, aside from all my bringing up, you know. 
In the South this something moves and moves, and then 
uncoils and comes to a beautiful life and takes possession 
of me ; and I drink in all the beauty of that wonderful coun- 
try where there isn’t any snow, and where the sun gets into 
my blood, and I know that this world is all there is — this 
magnificent, seductive world that smiles at me, and beckons 
me and intoxicates me.” 

Salome pressed her face more closely into her mother’s 
neck. 

“No, I shall not go South. You see, mother, I cannot 
go.” 

Mrs. Gerry felt the slender figure vibrate in her arms. 
She could not yet speak. She was keenly alive to the feel- 
ing that this child, who was so unutterably dear, was yet 
alien to her. She could not understand her. There is 


286 


OUT OF STEP 


something terrible in loving intensely something which must 
forever remain a mystery to us. 

Now, as ever, Mrs. Gerry tried first of all to hold herself 
in hand. She must remain outwardly calm, at least. Be- 
sides the good of being calm just for the sake of calmness, 
this state of her faculties would enable her to be of greater 
help to her daughter. 

“ Are you going to urge me to go ?” at last inquired Sa- 
lome. “ Because it won’t do any good.” 

“ No ; I’m not going to urge you. I think you ought to 
consult Randolph,” said Mrs. Gerry. 

‘‘Yes,” was the answer. 

Mrs. Gerry’s clear mind noted that, while Salome really 
had no regard for uprightness for itself, she was yet curi- 
ously free from a quite common duplicity as regarded her 
motives for action. She was possessed of an almost start- 
ling frankness as to her inner self. And this also was en- 
tirely foreign to the Yankee woman who was, from the very 
necessity of her nature, deeply reserved. 

She was sure it would be entirely useless to talk further 
on this subject. All talk which convinces no one only tends 
to the confirming of the old opinions. 

And it was not opinions with Salome ; it was her inward 
self, as the color of her eyes was part of her outward self. 
Why should any one attempt to reason with Salome because 
her eyes were hazel ? Of what earthly good to convince 
her that they should have been blue.^ 

One thing Mrs. Gerry did say ; 

“ Have you thought of your health ? You know it is good 
for your health to be in the South in the winter.” 

“I haven’t thought much about it. I think I shall be 
well. I did not go South last year.” 

“ I know. But you had some trouble in your chest.” 

“ No more than three-quarters of the people have,” was 
the feminine reply. 

Mrs. Gerry said no more then. For herself, she was 
glad not to go. For her the South had no charms ; it was 


THE END IS VISION 


287 


a place where such people as Job Maine lived, and where, 
if you wanted to live otherwise, you must be rich and lavish 
money wickedly. And the climate took all her strength ; 
it did not brace her as a good Northern winter braced. 
Notwithstanding all this, however, Mrs. Gerry would gladly 
have gone, because by doing so she could add to her child’s 
well being. 


XVIII 


“ THE END IS VISION AND THE END IS NEAR ” 

“What is all this about Salome’s not going South this 
fall ?” Moore asked the next day, as he found Mrs. Gerry 
alone. 

“ Hasn’t she told you ?” was the return question. 

“ She says she is afraid to go,” he answered. 

Moore’s voice involuntarily softened as he said this. To 
him there was always an undertone of pathos in everything 
connected with his wife. 

The two did not discuss the reason for Salome’s fear. 

“ Are you going to urge her to go ?” inquired Mrs. Gerry. 

“ No ; she shall do as she pileases. Only, for the sake of 
her health, I wish she did not feel this way.” 

Mrs. Gerry appeared to be deeply considering the cran- 
berries she was picking over. Finally she said : “ Sometimes 
I feel like advising you to insist upon her going.” 

“ But she has such a strong feeling ; she says she can’t 
trust herself. Mother, do you think that is all mere fancy? 
Just a womanish notion which I ought to combat ?” 

Mrs. Gerry took another handful of berries. She looked 
at them intently, but blindly. Her lips were pressed close 
together. 

“ Don’t combat it,” she at last replied. “ The older I 
grow the more I see the uselessness of meddling with the 
individuality of another. But it takes a lifetime to learn 
that. I thought I brought Salome up right, but now I don’t 
know. She was just like other good, conscientious girls — 
only nicer — until she went South and got well. Then she 
seemed to shed her bringing-up as snakes shed their skins. 


“the end is vision and the end is near” 289 

It wasn’t any part of her, after all ; and I had thought that 
it was.” 

Mrs. Gerry dropped the berries, which she had not picked 
over, into the wrong dish. She pushed the chair which 
held the two dishes away from her, and sat upright. But 
she was deliberate in her movements ; there was no appear- 
ance of disturbance about her. 

“ Randolph,” she said. 

She placed her berry-stained hand on his arm. 

“ I’m afraid she’ll try you a good deal as the years go on. 
Do you think you can be patient with her 

“ I think so,” was the answer, with solemn earnestness. 
And he added, “ You know I love her.” 

Moore took the hand from his arm and held it an instant. 
He had one serious talk with his wife on the subject of go- 
ing South; he felt that he must do that; but the matter was 
decided as Salome wished. Moore could not remonstrate 
with her when her sole reason for remaining in the North 
was that she felt that she could thus the better school her- 
self to be what he approved. 

Unknown to his wife, Moore consulted a celebrated phy- 
sician as to the probability of her being able to stay at home 
without harm to herself. It was that same Dr. Bowdoin 
who had been summoned by Mr. Gerry to prescribe for his 
daughter. 

Moore tried to believe that it was solely on account of 
her weak chest that he did thus, but secretly he longed to 
have a skilled and unbiassed opinion concerning a few of 
Salome’s characteristics. Without giving details which 
would have been compromising, he yet made a rather clear 
statement of some of Salome’s tendencies. 

The physician took his words with that easy comfortable- 
ness which is so cheering. 

“Ah, I see,” he said. “ Her real self and her nurture are 
at variance ; that’s confusing. We are bound to live our 
real selves more or less, and we often confound what we 
were born to be with what we are educated to be. A mat- 


19 


290 


OUT OF STEP 


ter of heredity frequently does not display itself until certain 
surroundings call it into life. This is evidently very marked 
in this case. And she is abnormal to a degree, of course. 
You needn’t start ; we are all more or less abnormal ; we 
must own up to that. It’s only the rank and file who are 
not in the least so. A person with no marked mental or 
physical idiosyncrasy is strictly normal. Now about her 
going South — ” Here the doctor meditated a moment. 
He asked two or three questions. 

“I would advise her to go,” he said. 

Moore was more perturbed by the advice than he had 
expected to be, for he had anticipated this counsel. 

He kept it to himself for some days ; then he informed 
Mrs. Gerry, who tried to conceal her distress. 

But there was the fact that Salome suffered little from 
the previous winter, and that she seemed well now. Still 
the two decided that she must know what the doctor had said. 

She only smiled at the information. It plainly had not 
the slightest effect upon her. 

And so the subject was definitely dropped. The project 
of almost forcing a woman to go South was not to be 
thought of. 

The fall days continued so beautiful that it seemed as if 
they w'ould never cease. 

But at last a warm rain began, and when, after two days, 
it stopped, a sharp wind from the northwest sprang up and 
raved over the fields and woods, stripping off the late lin- 
gering leaves, making the sky a steel blue. At sunset it 
subsided, but there was not one cricket brave enough to 
make a sound over all the land round about. 

The squashes and pumpkins were brought and put under 
piazza roofs. The farmers’ wives carefully took up the 
house plants which they had set in the garden for the sum- 
mer, and they spread old comforters over some late blooms 
that they might enjoy them a few days more. “ For,” they 
said, “ we shall have a little more warm weather after this 
cold spell.” 


THE END IS VISION AND THE END IS NEAR 


291 


(( 


The next morning the white frost was on everything ; it 
even covered the grass on the south side of the Gerry cot- 
tage. 

And there was no “warm spell” after it. Winter came 
on hurriedly. Flurries of snow hastened through the air. 
The chickadees flitted cheerily among the trees. But the 
bluebirds were all gone. 

“ Don’t you change your mind the least little bit asked 
Moore, as he and his wife breasted the sharp wind in a 
walk from the post-office one day. 

This same wind had given her a lovely color. She 
laughed gayly. 

“ I’m always changing my mind,” she answered, “ but 
not about going South. And, Randolph,” taking his arm, 
“ it’s all for your sake. I’m getting to know myself so 
well.” 

The two women wished to stay in the country until after 
Christmas ; then the Moores would set up housekeeping in 
Boston, and Mrs. Gerry would live with them. 

Moore' had taken a house, and it gave Salome and her 
mother a great deal of interesting employment to oversee 
the furnishing of it. 

The cold weather seemed to have no effect on Salome. 
She was in the best of spirits. She would have cheered 
her husband and her mother if they had needed cheer- 
ing. 

One day she suddenly said to Moore : 

“ You didn’t want my portrait, after all ?” 

She had not mentioned the subject before, and had 
asked no questions when her husband had briefly told her 
that he and the artist were dissatisfied with the work. 

“Yes, certainly, I wanted it,” he answered, promptly. 
“ I meant to talk with you about that, but I haven’t done 
so. And I wondered that you were not curious.” 

“ I was curious, but I guessed.” 

“ Well, what did you guess ?” Moore turned towards her 
and asked his question quickly. 


292 


OUT OF STEP 


It had seemed to him before his marriage that it would 
be endlessly interesting to study Salome. And he was still 
of the same mind. If there were lacking in this study an 
element of rest quite necessary to everyday life, who was 
to blame ? Not Salome, surely. 

“ I guessed that the portrait was too much like me,” she 
replied. 

She was watching his face, and she added : 

“ And now I know I was right.” 

Neither tried to continue the subject. It was something 
that it seemed quite impossible to talk about; and now to 
Moore, looked at in the light of the past, and without the 
portrait before him, the whole affair had a fanciful and 
ludicrous aspect. He would have unmercifully derided 
the incident had others been concerned in it. Or so he 
half thought now. 

He still was obliged to go to New York occasionally con- 
cerning the property he had inherited and to arrange as to 
a business project. Because he was now a rich man was 
no reason why, in his eyes, he should be an idle one. He 
was essentially active, and he had a strong taste for mer- 
cantile pursuits. He had intended, however, to allow these 
plans to remain in the background through the winter, 
which he had expected to spend in the South. Now this 
was changed. 

Meanwhile the two women were busy with household 
furnishings. To the elder woman these furnishings seemed 
wickedly lavish ; but the younger one took easily and 
naturally to all luxuries, though she was perfectly content 
without them. 

Coming out to the cottage one night in the week before 
Christmas, Salome and her mother found that there was no 
“ depot wagon ” in waiting at the station. It had been dis- 
continued for the season for the first time that day. The 
agent said “ it didn’t pay for cart-wheel grease to run a 
carriage in the winter for this train, so old Little had 
stopped.” 


“the end is vision and the end is near” 293 

The only two passengers who had alighted here stood a 
moment on the platform by the agent, who was swinging 
his lantern back and forth. It had snowed in the fore- 
noon; but afterwards the weather had grown warmer. It 
was mild and starlight now, and the clear crescent of a new 
moon was in the west. 

“ It’s only a mile and a half, mother,” said Salome ; “ we 
must walk.” 

“ I wish ’twas better going,” was the response. “But it’s 
no use trying to get a horse, for we can’t do it.” 

So they set out. It was only six o’clock, but the feeling and 
the aspect of the, surroundings indicated midnight at least. 

They walked through what in this part of the country 
was currently and graphically called “ posh,” and trousers 
and rubber boots are the suitable array for any one who 
must travel in such stuff. 

Although these two wore overshoes, a woman’s overshoes 
amount to very little in the way of protection, except against 
a slight dampness. 

After a few rods their feet were soaked in snow-water. 
Then they ceased trying to pick their way with raised skirts 
and hesitating steps, after the manner of women. 

“ We might as well splash right along,” said Salome, 
who was in high spirits. 

So they did splash along through the half-melted snow. 
And when they reached home they changed their clothes, 
brewed some ginger tea and drank it, sitting side by side 
in front of the cook-stove with their feet in the oven. 

“ If you only haven’t taken cold,” said Mrs. Gerry, as 
they sipped their drink and were comfortable and cosey. 

“ If you only haven’t taken cold yourself !” was the re- 
tort, with a gay laugh, and a hug from the arm whose hand 
did not hold the cup of ginger tea. 

Mrs. Gerry rose towards morning and went into her 
daughter’s room. 

“Is that you, mother.?” inquired the fresh young voice 
in a wide-awake manner. 


294 


OUT OF STEP 


“ I was so foolish as to get to worrying,” was the apolo- 
getic reply. 

Salome raised herself on her arm. Her eyes shone, in 
the lamplight. 

“ You must act on the ground that there is no such thing 
as catching cold,” she said ; “ then you can’t take cold be- 
cause there’s no cold to take.” 

Salome laughed a little, gave a slight cough, and put her 
head back on the pillow. 

She looked so very wide awake that her mother asked if 
she had been asleep. 

“I don’t think I have,” was the answer; “but my 
thoughts have been so unusually clear that I have quite en- 
joyed them.” 

There was something, she hardly knew what, that now 
thoroughly alarmed Mrs. Gerry ; therefore she was appar- 
ently more than usually calm and matter-of-fact. 

That day Salome did not seem really ill, though she did 
not refuse to sit or lie all day long in the kitchen where 
her mother was persistently busy. And she was very gay. 
One might almost have said that something — what could it 
be ? — had happened to please her. 

Sometimes she coughed shortly and dryly. Twice when 
she did so there was a spot of bright scarlet on her hand- 
kerchief. But her mother did not know that. 

Without knowing that, however, Mrs. Gerry had gone 
over to Mr. Scudder’s for butter, and had asked Mr. Scud- 
der to drive to the station and telegraph to that Dr. Bow- 
doin who had, a few years before, sent Salome to Florida. 

But no hint of this errand could be seen in her manner 
when she returned with the butter. 

The two talked cheerfully. When evening came Salome 
coughed a little more, and her cheeks were red. Her 
mother brought her some milk to drink. She made a pre- 
tence of wanting it very much, but she could not quite con- 
ceal the effort required to enable her to drink it. 

When it drew towards midnight Mrs. Gerry told Salome 


THE END IS VISION AND THE END IS NEAR 


295 


<( 


that she expected Dr. Bowdoin from Boston in that train ; 
Mr. Scudder would bring him from the station. She 
added, by way of explanation : 

“ I was afraid you might have a touch of pneumonia, and 
I wanted the best advice ; since I knew Randolph would 
approve.” 

Before the doctor arrived a bed had been put up in the 
bit of a sitting-room, and Salome was established in it. 
She was still so cheerful as to be almost gay. She said it 
was really absurd to make any arrangement like that. 

When Dr. Bowdoin came he sat by Salome’s bed for half 
an hour. He put very few questions. Only talked a little 
with her. 

In the kitchen with Mrs. Gerry he asked, sharply : 

“ Why didn’t she go South, as I recommended ? SHe 
would have been saved this.” 

Mrs. Gerry was white, but composed. 

“ We couldn’t persuade her to go,” she answered. She 
made a moment’s pause, then she asked, firmly : 

“ Will you tell me how she is ? I must know.” 

The man looked at her keenly. 

“ You know just as well as I do,” he answered, “ that 
she is bad — very bad. She is going to have that kind of 
phthisis which only lasts a few weeks.” 

Mrs. Gerry stood erect. She did not make a gesture. 

Dr. Bowdoin placed a chair for her, and gently made her 
sit. 

“ It sounds brutal to tell you,” he said, “ but one must 
know the truth. Isn’t your daughter happy ?” he in- 
quired. 

“ Very happy,” was the answer. 

“ But she doesn’t want to live,” was the startling state- 
ment from the doctor. 

Mrs. Gerry could not speak. She looked at the man be- 
fore her. 

“ I’m sure of it,” he added, “ though she said no such 
thing. But it makes no difference. She has this predis- 


296 


OUT OF STEP 


position — it could not be safe for her to spend winters in 
this climate. In fact, she ought to have lived all the time 
South.” 

Then followed some directions, to which Mrs. Gerry 
listened carefully. 

The doctor said he would come again in three days. Mr. 
Scudder, a few moments later, took him to an adjoining 
town, were he could catch a train to Boston. 

Mrs. Gerry was left alone in the cottage with Salome. 

She sat down on the lounge where Salome had lain the 
day before. She sat on the very edge, her hands lying in 
her lap. 

She did not know how long she sat there, but not long. 

Presently she rose and went softly to the door of the 
sitting-room. 

Her child was sleeping now. Her child. Not the grown 
woman and wife, but her child. 

“ Our little girl,” her husband used to call her. 

She stood in the middle of the room. Every one knows 
how keen is the mechanical vision at such times. 

Mrs. Gerry’s eyes took in every homely detail of the 
place. She saw a slip of paper on the lounge by the pillow 
where Salome had been lying that day. Without knowing 
or caring what it was, the woman picked up the newspaper 
cutting, adjusted her glasses, and held it to the lamp. She 
read it, or she would have said she was reading it, though 
her mind did not at first take in a single word, much less 
an idea. 

She did not know what to do. She stood there with the 
lamp in one hand and the slip in the other. 

Presently, however, her mind absorbed the printed lines, 
and, as sometimes happens, they immediately began to form 
part of this experience. Afterwards she could never recall 
this illness without recalling, word for word, what she read 
then. And always her whole being strenuously and pite- 
ously rebelled, as we mortals must rebel to the end of time, 
even though we have phases of faith and hope. 


“the end is vision and the end is near” 297 

‘ ‘ Where are the voices kings were glad to hear ? 

Where now the feast, the song, the bayadere ? 

The end is nothing, and the end is near. 

“ And yonder lovely rose ; alas ! my dear ! 

See the November garden rank and drear ; 

The end is nothing, and the end is near. 

“ Then vex thyself no more with thought austere, 

Take what thou canst while thou abidest here. 

Seek finer pleasures each returning year ; 

“The end is nothing, and the end is near. 

Joy is the Lord, and Love his charioteer ; 

Be tranquil and rejoicing, oh, my dear ! 

“ Shun the wild seas, far from the breakers steer ; 

The end is vision and the end is near. 

List to the wisdom learned of Saint and Seer ! 

“The living Lord is Joy, and peace His sphere; 

Rebel no more ! Throw down thy shield and spear. 

Surrender all thyself ; true life is here ; 

“ The end is vision and the end is near. 

Forget not this, forget not that, my dear ! 

’Tis all and nothing, and the end is near. 

— Writ on a ruined palace in Kashmir.” 

Having read these verses twice through, Mrs. Gerry 
walked across the room and carefully placed the lamp on 
the table. She noiselessly put some wood in the stove. 
She would sit up the rest of the night. Why should she lie 
down She could not sleep. Probably Salome would not 
need her, but she could not sleep. 

And the child had been reading such words as these } 
They were pagan words. There was no glimmer of high 
faith in them. It was as if this world were all there was. 
This world ! Why, this world was nothing — nothing. In the 
world to come was the substance, the fruition, the fulfil- 
ment of God’s promises. If it were not so — Here the 
woman’s thoughts, which had gone on coherently, suddenly 


OUT OF STEP 


298 

paused, as over a black abyss. But her faith spread wings 
to fly over this abyss. If that faith might only take Salome, 
her own child, with her. In death, as in life, she must take 
care of Salome. 

Sitting there motionless, with her hands resting on the 
slip of paper, the mother endured that night what she could 
never tell. 

And in the next room Salome slept. 

In the morning Mrs. Gerry, when she was sure her 
daughter was fully awake, took in a dainty breakfast, care- 
fully arranged. She said that, as Salome had fallen asleep 
so late, she would indulge her. 

By noon the invalid was up and dressed and in the arm- 
chair by the kitchen stove. She would rather be where her 
mother was at work. She did not seem very ill. Mrs. 
Gerry had not sent for Moore, because he was to arrive that 
afternoon. 

Salome sat where she could see him when he turned the 
curve in the road from the station. There he was, tall 
and strong, and striding along briskly. He recognized her 
and tossed up his hat. She saw his eyes shine ; his teeth 
gleamed under his yellow mustache. 

Mrs. Gerry was furtively watching her daughter’s face. A 
look of intense agony was on that face for an instant ; then 
it was gone. Salome did not take her gaze from her hus- 
band as long as he was in sight. 

The next moment he had entered the room and she had 
sprung up to meet him. 

. All the rest of the day Mrs. Gerry felt like a coward. 
She carefully avoided being alone with Moore for a mo- 
ment. It seemed to her that she could not say to him what 
she knew she must say. 

At last the time came. Moore followed her out into the 
shed where the wood was stored. Salome was asleep on 
the lounge. She had been coughing, and he had seen the 
splotches of blood on her handkerchief, though she did not 
know that he had seen them. 


THE END IS VISION AND THE END IS NEAR 


(< 


299 


Mrs. Gerry felt her arm taken in a fierce hold. 

She looked up. Meeting the young man’s eyes, she sud- 
denly leaned against him, shivering. 

But he did not shiver. He was tense. 

“We will go to Florida next week,” he whispered, ea- 
gerly. “ The South cured her before ; it will cure her 
again.” 

He held his companion closely to him. 

She shook her head. 

“ No, no. It will do no good. The doctor will tell you. 
But I don’t need any doctor to tell me. I’ve seen this be- 
fore. We must try to be cheerful with her.” 

She removed herself from Moore’s hold. He kept him- 
self rigid. 

“ Good God ! Good God !” he cried. “ I can’t bear it.” 

He went out-of-doors. He had gone only a few yards 
when Mrs. Gerry called him back; she had his hat and 
overcoat. She told him that he must keep well. 

When Dr. Bowdoin came he forbade them to think of 
going South. 

“ Make her as comfortable as you can here,” he said. 

One day Salome told Moore that there were two or three 
things she wanted to say. He responded that there was 
enough in which to say things. 

But she insisted. She was quite calm, as sick people will 
time often be. 

She explained that one reason why she had decided that 
she would not go South was because she thought that per- 
haps this very thing would happen. She almost hoped it 
would. 

She moved more closely to him. “ This is much the best 
way. And now I’m sure you will always think of me as I 
long to have you think. And if I went on living year after 
year, I couldn’t possibly keep on being good. I’m convinced 
of that. And to be by your side through a long life, and to 
be out of step with you, and out of step with true and high 
things which you value, and which my mother values — ” 


300 


OUT OF STEP 


here she broke off. “ But, oh, Randolph, we’ve known what 
it is to be happy, haven’t we V’ 

Moore did not speak. He sat silently holding her. 

They took care of her for more than two months. In 
March she died. 

A dark, saturnine man who had not come near the cot- 
tage, sometimes — later — went to the grave. 

The neighbors were surprised that “ Redd ” took it so 
hard. “ He didn’t say anything, but he wasn’t the same.’’ 

Often Moore stood by the grave, and with him was a 
spare woman, now seeming long past middle age. And this 
young man and this elderly woman knew “ that their keen- 
est joy and keenest sorrow were forever buried there.” 


THE END 


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